AND 


OTHER  POEMS 


BY 


ELLA^WHEELER^ILCOX, 


Author  of  "  POEMS  OF  PASSION,"  "  MAURINE,"  "  POEMS  OF  PLEASURE,' 

"  How  SALVATOR  WON,"  ""THE  BEAUTIFUL  LAND  OF  NOD," 

"AN  ERRING  WOMAN'S  LOVE,"    "MEN,  WOMEN 

AND  EMOTIONS,"  ETC. 


.  CHICAGO: 
W.  B.  CONKEY  COMPANY. 


Copyright  1896, 

.  .  By  . . 
ELLA  WHEELER  WILCOX. 


CRA&TON  ACCESSWfc 

\1eO& 
MCftOFTUBBW         T  ft  |r     [i/Jf  CROF 


PREFACE. 


"Let  such  teach  others,  who  themselves  excel, 
And  censure  freely  who  have  written  well." 

—POPE. 


BUT 


CONTENTS. 


PAGE. 

The  World's  Need 4 

High  Noon 9 

Transformation 11 

Thought-Magnets 13 

Smiles 14 

The  Undiscovered  Count)  y 16 

The  Universal  Route 17 

Earthly  Pride 18 

Unanswered  Prayers 19 

Thanksgiving 21 

A  Maiden  to  Her  Mirror 23 

The  Kettle 24 

Contrasts 26 

Thy  Ship 27 

The  Tryst 29 

Life 32 

A  Marine  Etching 33 

The  Duel 34 

"Love  Thyself  Last" 36 

Christmas  Fancies 38 

The  River 41 

5 


6  CONTENTS. 

PAGE. 

Sorry 43 

The  Old  Wooden  Cradle 45 

Ambition's  Trail 47 

The  Traveled  Man 48 

Uncontrolled 50 

The  Tulip  Bed  at  Greeley  Square 51 

Will 53 

To  An  Astrologer 54 

The  Tendril's  Faith 56 

The  Times 57 

The  Question 58 

Sorrow's  Uses 59 

If 60 

Which  Are  You? 61 

The  Creed  To  Be 63 

Music  in  the  Flat 65 

Inspiration 68 

The  Wish 69 

Three  Friends 70 

You  Never  Can  Tell 72 

Here  and  Now ^3 

Unconquered 75 

All  That  Love  Asks 76 

Does  It  Pay 77 

Sestina 78 

The  Optimist 80 

The  Pessimist 80 

An  Inspiration 81 

Thf  Hammock's  Complaint 83 


CONTENTS.  7 

PAGE. 

Life's  Harmonies 84 

Preaching  vs.  Practice 85 

An  Old  Man  to  His  Sleeping  Young  Bride 86 

I  Am 88 

Two  Nights 90 

Preparation 92 

Custer.. .  94 


THE  WORLD'S  NEED. 


So  many  gods,  so  many  creeds, 

So  many  paths  that  wind  and  wind, 
While  just  the  art  of  being  kind, 

Is  all  the  sad  world  needs. 


HIGH  NOON. 

ty\  IME'S  finger  on  the  dial  of  my  life 
4L     Points  to  high  noon!  and  yet  the  half-spent 

day 

Leaves  less  than  half  remaining,  for  the  dark, 
Bleak  shadows  of  the  grave  engulf  the  end. 

To  those  who  burn  the  candle  to  the  stick, 
The  sputtering  socket  yields  but  little  light. 
Long  life  is  sadder  than  an  early  death. 
We  cannot  count  on  raveled  threads  of  age 
Whereof  to  weave  a  fabric.     We  must  use 
The  warp  and  woof  the  ready  present  yields 
And  toil  while  daylight  lasts.     When  I  bethink 
How  brief  the  past,  the  future  still  more  brief, 
Calls  on  to  action,  action!     Not  for  me 
Is  time  for  retrospection  or  for  dreams, 
Not  time  for  self-laudation  or  remorse. 
Have  I  done  nobly?     Then  I  must  not  let 
Dead  yesterday  unborn  to-morrow  shame. 
Have  I  done  wrong?     Well,  let  the  bitter  taste 
Of  fruit  that  turned  to  ashes  on  my  lip 
Be  my  reminder  in  temptation's  hour, 
And  keep  me  silent  when  I  would  condemn. 


io  CUSTER, 

Sometimes  it  takes  the  acid  of  a  sin 

To  cleanse  the  clouded  windows  of  our  souls 

So  pity  may  shine  through  them. 

Looking  back, 

My  faults  and  errors  seem  like  stepping-stones 
That  led  the  way  to  knowledge  of  the  truth 
And  made  me  value  virtue;  sorrows  shine 
In  rainbow  colors  o'er  the  gulf  of  years, 
Where  lie  forgotten  pleasures. 

Looking  forth, 

Out  to  the  westers  sky  still  bright  with  noon, 
I  feel  well  spurred  and  booted  for  the  strife 
That  ends  not  till  Nirvana  is  attained. 

Battling  with  fate,  with  men  and  with  myself, 
Up  the  steep  summit  of  my  life's  forenoon, 
Three  things  I  learned,  three  things  of  precious 

worth 

To  guide  and  help  me  down  the  western  slope. 
I  have  learned  how  to  pray,  and  toil,  and  save. 
To  pray  for  courage  to  receive  what  comes, 
Knowing  what  comes  to  be  divinely  sent. 
To  toil  for  universal  good,  since  thus 
And  only  thus  can  good  come  unto  me. 
To  save,  by  giving  whatsoe'er  I  have 
To  those  who  have  not,  this  alone  is  gain. 


AND  OTHER  POEMS.  n 


TRANSFORMATION. 

HE  waited  in  a  rose-hued  room; 
A  wanton-hearted  creature  she, 
But  beautiful  and  bright  to  see 
As  some  great  orchid  just  in  bloom. 

Upon  wide  cushions  stretched  at  ease 
She  lolled  in  garments  filmy  fine, 
Which  but  enhanced  each  rounded  line; 

A  living  picture,  framed  to  please. 

A  bold  electric  eye  of  light 

Leered  through  its  ruddy  screen  of  lace 
And  feasted  on  her  form  and  face 

As  some  wine-crimsoned  roue  might. 

From  wall  and  niche,  nude  nymph  beguiled 
Fair  goddesses  of  world-wide  fame, 
But  Psyche's  self  was  put  to  shame 

By  one  who  from  the  cushions  smiled. 

Exotic  blossoms  from  a  vase 
Their  sweet  narcotic  breath  exhaled; 
The  lights,  the  objects  round  her  paled — 

She  lost  the  sense  of  titne  and  place. 


12  CUSTER, 

She  seemed  to  float  upon  the  air, 
Untrammeled,  unrestricted,  free; 
And  rising  from  a  vapory  sea 
She  saw  a  form  divinely  fair. 

A  beauteous  being  in  whose  face 

Shone  all  things  sweet  and  true  and  good. 
The  innocence  of  maidenhood, 

The  motherhood  of  all  the  race. 

The  warmth  which  comes  from  heavenly  fire, 
The  strength  which  leads  the  weaker  man 
To  climb  to  God's  Eternal  plan 

And  conquer  and  control  desire. 

She  shook  as  with  a  mighty  awe, 

For,  gazing  on  this  shape  which  stood 
Embodying  all  true  womanhood, 
She  knew  it  was  herself  she  saw. 

She  woke  as  from  a  dream.     But  when 
The  laughing  lover,  light  and  bold 
Came  with  his  talk  of  wine  and  gold 

He  gazed,  grew  silent,  gazed  again; 

Then  turned  abashed  from  those  calm  eyes 
Where  lurked  no  more  the  lure  to  sin. 
Her  higher  self  had  entered  in, 

Her  path  led  now  to  Paradise. 


AND  OTHER  POEMS.  13 


THOUGHT-MAGNETS. 

ITH     each    strong   thought,    with    every 

earnest  longing 
For  aught  thou  deemest  needful  to  thy  soul, 
Invisible  vast  forces  are  set  thronging 
Between  thee  and  that  goal. 

'Tis  only  when  some  hidden  weakness  alters 
And  changes  thy  desire,  or  makes  it  less, 

That  this  mysterious  army  ever  falters 
Or  stops  short  of  success. 

Thought  is  a  magnet;  and  the  longed-for  pleasure 
Or  boon,  or  aim,  or  object,  is  the  steel; 

And  its  attainment  hangs  but  on  the  measure 
Of  what  thy  soul  can  feel. 


14  CUSTER, 


SMILES. 

MILE  a  little,  smile  a  little, 

As  you  go  along, 
Not  alone  when  life  is  pleasant, 
But  when  things  go  wrong. 
Care  delights  to  see  you  frowning. 

Loves  to  hear  you  sigh; 
Turn  a  smiling  face  upon  her, 
Quick  the  dame  will  fly. 

Smile  a  little,  smile  a  little, 

All  along  the  road; 
Every  life  must  have  its  burden, 

Every  heart  its  load. 
Why  sit  down  in  gloom  and  darkness, 

With  your  grief  to  sup  ? 
As  you  drink  Fate's  bitter  tonic, 

Smile  across  the  cup. 

Smile  upon  the  troubled  pilgrims 

Whom  you  pass  and  meet; 
Frowns  are  thorns,  and  smiles  are  blossoms 

Oft  for  weary  feet. 


AND  OTHER  POEMS.  15 

Do  not  make  the  way  seem  harder 

By  a  sullen  face, 
Smile  a  little,  smile  a  little, 

Brighten  up  the  place. 

Smile  upon  your  undone  labor; 

Not  for  one  who  grieves 
O'er  his  task,  waits  wealth  or  glory; 

He  who  smiles  achieves. 
Though  you  meet  with  loss  and  sorrow 

In  the  passing  years, 
Smile  a  little,  smile  a  little, 

Even  through  your  tears. 


16  CUSTER, 


THE  UNDISCOVERED  COUNTRY. 

AN    has    explored   all  countries  and  all 

lands, 

'And  made  his  own  the  secrets  of  each 
clime. 

Now,  ere  the  world  has  fully  reached  its  prime. 
The  oval  earth  lies  compassed  with  steel  bands, 
The  seas  are  slaves  to  ships  that  touch  all  strands, 
And  even  the  haughty  elements  sublime 
And  bold,  yield  him  their  secrets  for  all  time, 
And  speed  like  lackeys  forth  at  his  commands. 

Still,   though   he    search  from  shore   to    distant 
shore, 

And  no  strange  realms,  no  unlocated  plains 
Are  left  for  his  attainment  and  control, 
Yet  is  there  one  more  kingdom  to  explore. 

Go,  know  thyself,  O  man!  there  yet  remains 
The  undiscovered  country  of  thy  soull 


AND  OTHER  POEMS.  17 


THE  UNIVERSAL  ROUTE. 

S  we  journey  along,  with  a  laugh  and  a  song, 
We  see,  on  youth's  flower-decked  slope, 

Like  a  beacon  of  light,  shining  fair  on  the 
sight, 
The  beautiful  Station  of  Hope. 

But   the   wheels   of   old   Time  roll  along  as  we 

climb, 

And  our  youth  speeds  away  on  the  years; 
And  with  hearts  that  are  numb  with  life's  sorrows 

we  come 
To  the  mist-covered  Station  of  Tears. 

Still  onward  we  pass,  where  the  milestones,  alas! 

Are  the  tombs  of  our  dead,  to  the  West, 
Where  glitters  and  gleams,  in  the  dying  sunbeams. 

The  sweet,  silent  Station  of  Rest. 

All  rest  is  but  change,  and  no  grave  can  estrange 

The  soul  from  its  Parent  above; 
And,  scorning  the  rod,  it  soars  back  to  its  God, 

To  the  limitless  City  of  Love. 


18  CUSTER, 


EARTHLY   PRIDE. 

OW  baseless  is  the  mightiest  earthly  pride, 
The  diamond  is  but  charcoal  purified, 
The  lordliest  pearl  that  decks  a  mon 
arch's  breast 
Is  but  an  insect's  sepulchre  at  best. 


AND  OTHER  POEMS.  19 


UNANSWERED   PRAYERS. 

IKE   some    school    master,    kind   in    being 

stern, 

Who  hears  the  children  crying  o'er  their 
slates 

And  calling,  "Help  me  master!"  yet  helps  not, 
Since  in  his  silence  and  refusal  lies 
Their  self-development,  so  God  abides 
Unheeding  many  prayers.     He  is  not  deaf 
To  any  cry  sent  up  from  earnest  hearts, 
He  hears  and  strengthens  when  He  must  deny. 
He  sees  us  weeping  over  life's  hard  sums 
But  should  He  give  the  key  and  dry  our  tears 
What  would  it  profit  us  when  school  were  done 
And  not  one  lesson  mastered? 

What  a  world 

Were  this  if  all  our  prayers  were  answered.      Not 
In  famed  Pandora's  box  were  such  vast  ills 
As  lie  in  human  hearts.     Should  our  desires 
Voiced  one  by  one  in  prayer  ascend  to  God 
And  come  back  as  events  shaped  to  our  wish 
What  chaos  would  result! 

In  my  fierce  youth 
I  sighed  out  breath  enough  to  move  a  fleet 


20  CUSTER, 

Voicing  wild  prayers  to  heaven  for  fancied  boons 

Which  were  denied;  and  that  denial  bends 

My  knee  to  prayers  of  gratitude  each  day 

Of  my  maturer  years.     Yet  from  those  prayers 

I  rose  alway  regirded  for  the  strife 

And  conscious  of  newstrength.  Pray  on,  sad  heart, 

That  which  thou  pleadest  for  may  not  be  given 

But  in  the  lofty  altitude  where  souls 

Who  supplicate  God's  grace  are  lifted  there 

Thou  shalt  find  help  to  bear  thy  daily  lot 

Which  is  not  elsewhere  found. 


AND  OTHER  POEMS.  21 


THANKSGIVING. 

£  walk  on  starry  fields  of  white 
And  do  not  see  the  daisies; 
For  blessings  common  in  our  sight 
We  rarely  offer  praises. 

We  sigh  for  some  supreme  delight 
To  crown  our  lives  with  splendor, 

And  quite  ignore  our  daily  store 
Of  pleasures  sweet  and  tender. 

Our  cares  are  bold  and  push  their  way 

Upon  our  thought  and  feeling. 
They  hang  about  us  all  the  day, 

Our  time  from  pleasure  stealing. 
So  unobtrusive  many  a  joy 

We  pass  by  and  forget  it, 
But  worry  strives  to  own  our  lives 

And  conquers  if  we  let  it. 

There's  not  a  day  in  all  the  year 
But  holds  some  hidden  pleasure, 

And  looking  back,  joys  oft  appear 
To  brim  the  past's  wide  measure. 


22  CUSTER, 

But  blessings  are  like  friends,  I  hold, 
Who  love  and  labor  near  us. 

We  ought  to  raise  our  notes  of  praise 
While  living  hearts  can  hear  us. 

Full  many  a  blessing  wears  the  guise 

Of  worry  or  of  trouble. 
Farseeing  is  the  soul  and  wise 

Who  knows  the  mask  is  double. 
But  he  who  has  the  faith  and  strength 

To  thank  his  God  for  sorrow 
Has  found  a  joy  without  alloy 

To  gladden  every  morrow. 

We  ought  to  make  the  moments  notes 

Of  happy,  glad  Thanksgiving; 
The  hours  and  days  a  silent  phrase 

Of  music  we  are  living. 
And  so  the  theme  should  swell  and  grow 

As  weeks  and  months  pass  o'er  us, 
And  rise  sublime  at  this  good  time, 

A  grand  Thanksgiving  chorus. 


AND  OTHER  POEMS.  23 


A  MAIDEN  TO  HER  MIRROR. 

said  he  loved  me  !     Then  he  called  my 

hair 

Silk  threads  wherewith  sly  Cupid  strings 
his  bow, 

My  cheek  a  rose  leaf  fallen  on  new  snow; 
And  swore  my  round,  full  throat  would  bring  de 
spair 
To  Venus  or  to  Psyche. 

Time  and  care 

Will  fade  these  locks  ;  the  merry  god,  I  trow, 
Uses  no  grizzled  cords  upon  his  bow. 
How  will  it  be  wnen  I,  no  longer  fair, 

Plead  for  his  kiss  with  cheeks  whence  long  ago 
The  early  snowflakes  melted  quite  away, 
The  rose  leaf  died — and  in  whose  sallow  clay 
Lie  the  deep  sunken  tracks  of  life's  gaunt  crow? 

When  this  full  throat  shall  wattle  fold  on  fold, 
Like  some  ripe  peach  left  drying  on  a  wall, 
Or  like  a  spent  accordion,  when  all 

Its  music  has  exhaled — will  love  grow  cold? 


24  CUSTER, 


THE  KETTLE. 

rLRE'S  many  a  house  of  grandeur, 
With  turret,  tower  and  dome, 
That  knows  not  peace  or  comfort, 

And  does  not  prove  a  home, 
/do  not  ask  for  splendor 
To  crown  my  daily  lot, 
But  this  I  ask — a  kitchen 
Where  the  kettle's  always  hot 

If  things  are  not  all  ship-shape, 

I  do  not  fume  or  fret, 
A  little  clean  disorder 

Does  not  my  nerves  upset. 
But  one  thing  is  essential, 

Or  seems  so  to  my  thought, 
And  that's  a  tidy  kitchen 

Where  the  kettle's  always  hot. 

In  my  Aunt  Hattie's  household, 
Though  skies  outside  are  drear, 

Though  times  are  dark  and  troubled, 
You'll  always  find  good  cheer. 


AND  OTHER  POEMS.  25 

And  in  her  quaint  old  kitchen — 

The  very  homiest  spot — 
The  kettle's  always  singing, 

The  water's  always  hot. 

And  if  you  have  a  headache, 

Whate'er  the  hour  may  be, 
There  is  no  tedious  waiting 

To  get  your  cup  of  tea. 
I  don't  know  how  she  does  it — 

Some  magic  she  has  caught — 
For  the  kitchen's  cool  in  summer, 

Yet  the  kettle's  always  hot. 

Oh,  there's  naught  else  so  dreary 

In  household  kingdom  found 
As  a  cold  and  sullen  kettle 

That  does  not  make  a  sound. 
And  I  think  that  love  is  lacking 

In  the  hearts  in  such  a  spot, 
Or  the  kettle  would  be  singing 

And  the  water  woul'd  be  hot. 


26  CUSTER, 


CONTRASTS. 

SSEE  the  tall  church  steeples, 
They  reach  so  far,  so  far, 
But  the  eyes  of  my  heart  see  the   world's 

great  mart, 
Where  the  starving  people  are. 

I  hear  the  church  bells  ringing 

Their  chimes  on  the  morning  air; 
But  my  soul's  sad  ear  is  hurt  to  hear 

The  poor  man's  cry  of  despair. 

Thicker  and  thicker  the  churches, 

Nearer  and  nearer  the  sky — 

But  alack  for  their  creeds  while  the  poor  man's 
needs 

Grow  deeper  as  years  roll  by. 


AND  OTHER  POEMS.  27 


THY  SHIP. 

C3ST  thou  a  ship,  in  whose  vast  hold  lay 
, 
stored 
The  priceless  riches   of  all  climes  and 
lands, 

Say,  wouldst  thou  let  it  float  upon  the  seas 
Unpiloted,  of  fickle  winds  the  sport, 
And  of  wild  waves  and  hidden  rocks  the  prey? 

Thine  is  that  ship;  and  in  its  depths  concealed 
Lies  all  the  wealth  of  this  vast  universe — 
Yea,  lies  some  part  of  God's  omnipotence 
The  legacy  divine  of  every  soul. 
Thy  will,  O  man,  thy  will  is  that  great  ship, 
And  yet  behold  it  drifting  here  and  there — 
One  moment  lying  motionless  in  port, 
Then  on  high  seas  by  sudden  impulse  flung, 

Then  drying  on  the  sands,  and  yet  again 
Sent  forth  on  idle  quests  to  no-man's  land 
To  carry  nothing  and  to  nothing  bring; 
Till  worn  and  fretted  by  the  aimless  strife 
And  buffeted  by  vacillating  winds 
It  founders  on  a  rock,  or  springs  aleak 
With  all  its  unused  treasures  in  the  hold. 


28  CUSTER, 

Go  save  thy  ship,  thou  sluggard;   take  the  \vhee 
And  steer  to  knowledge,  glory  and  success. 
Great  mariners  have  made  the  pathway  plain 
For  thee  to  follow;  hold  thou  to  the  course 
Of  Concentration  Channel,  and  all  things 
Shall  come  in  answer  to  thy  swerveless  wish 
As  comes  the  needle  to  the  magnet's  call, 
Or  sunlight  to  the  prisoned  blade  of  grass 
That  yearns  all  winter  for  the  kiss  of  spring. 


AND  OTHER  POEMS.  29 


THE  TRYST. 

'UST  when  all  hope  had  perished  in  my  soul, 
And  balked  desire  madehavoc  with  my  mind, 
My  cruel  Ladye  suddenly  grew  kind, 
And  sent  these  gracious  words  upon  a  scroll: 
"  When  knowing  Night  her  dusky  scarf  has  tied 
Across  the  bold,  intrusive  eyes  of  day, 
Come  as  a  glad,  triumphant  lover  may, 
No  longer  fearing  that  he  be  denied." 

I  read  her  letter  for  the  hundredth  time, 
And  for  the  hundredth  time  my  gladdened  sight 
Blurred  with  the  rapture  of  my  vast  delight, 
And  swooned  upon  the  page.     I  caught  the  chime 
Of  far  off  bells,  and  at  each  silver  note 
My  heart  on  tiptoe  pressed  its  eager  ear 
Against  my  breast;  it  was  such  joy  to  hear 
The  tolling  of  the  hour  of  which  she  wrote. 

The  curious  day  still  lingered  in  the  skies 
And  watched  me  as  I  hastened  to  the  tryst. 
And  back,  beyond  great  clouds  of  amethyst, 
I  saw  the  Night's  soft,  reassuring  eyes. 


30  CUSTER, 

"  Oh,    Night,"  I  cried,  "  dear  Love's  considerate 

friend, 

Haste  from  the  far,  dim  valleys  of  the  west, 
Rock  the  sad  striving  earth  to  quiet  rest, 
And  bid  the  day's  insistent  vigil  end." 

Down  brooding  streets,  and    past    the  harbored 

ships 
The   Night's  young  handmaid,  Twilight,  walked 

with  me. 

A  spent  moon  leaned  inertly  o'er  the  sea; 
A  few,  pale,  phantom  stars  were  in  eclipse. 
There  was  the  house,  My  Ladye's  sea-girt  bower 
All  draped  in  gloom,  save  for  one  taper's  glow, 
Which  lit  the  path,  where  willing  feet  would  go. 
There  was  the  house,  and  this  the  promised  hour. 

The  tide  was  out;  and  from  the  sea's  salt  path 
Rose  amorous  odors,  filtering  through  the  night 
And  stirring  all  the  senses  with  delight; 
Sweet  perfumes  left  since  Aphrodite's  bath. 
Back  in  the  wooded  copse,  a  whip-poor-will 
Gave  love's  impassioned  and  impatient  call. 
On  pebbled  sands  I  heard  the  waves  kiss  fall, 
And  fall  again,  so  hushed  the  hour  and  still. 

Light  was  my  knock  upon  the  door,  so  light, 
And  yet  the  sound  seemed  rude.    My  pulses  beat 
So  loud  they  drowned  the  coming  of  her  feet 
The  arrow  of  her  taper  pierced  the  gloom— 


AND  OTHER  POEMS.  31 

The  portal  closed  behind  me.     She  was  there — 
Love  on  her  lips  and  yielding  in  her  eyes 
And  but  the  sea  to  hear  our  vows  and  sighs. 
She  took  my  hand  and  led  me  up  the  stair. 


32  CUSTER, 


LIFE. 

LL  in  the  dark  we  grope  along, 
And  if  we  go  amiss 

We  learn  at  least  which  path  is  wrong, 
And  there  is  gain  in  this. 

We  do  not  always  win  the  race, 

By  only  running  right, 
We  have  to  tread  the  mountain's  base 

Before  we  reach  its  height. 

The  Christs  alone  no  errors  made; 

So  often  had  they  trod 
The  paths  that  lead    through    light   and    shade, 

They  had  become  as  God. 

As  Krishna,  Buddha,  Christ  again, 

They  passed  along  the  way, 
And  left  those  mighty  truths  which  men 

But  dimly  grasp  to-day. 

But  he  who  loves  himself  the  last 

And  knows  the  use  of  pain, 
Though  strewn  with  errors  all  his  past, 

He  surely  shall  attain. 

Some  souls  there  are  that  needs  must  taste 

Of  wrong,  ere  choosing  right; 
We  should  not  call  those  years  a  waste 

Which  Iqd  us  to  the  light. 


AND  OTHER  POEMS.  33 


A  MARINE  ETCHING. 
YACHT  from    its    harbor    ropes  pulled 

free' 

And  leaped  like  a  steed  o'er  the  race 

track  blue, 
Then  up  behind  her,  the  dust  of  the  sea, 
A  gray  fog,  drifted,  and  hid  her  from  view, 


34  CUSTER, 


THE  DUEL. 

H  many  a  duel  the  world  has  seen 
That  was  bittter  with  hate,  that  was  red 

with  gore, 
But  I  sing  of  a  duel  by  far  more  cruel 
Than  ever  by  poet  was  sung  before. 
It  was  waged  by  night,  yea  by  day  and  by  night, 

With  never  a  pause  or  halt  or  rest, 
And  the  curious  spot  where  this  battle  was  fought 
Was  the  throbbing  heart  in  a  woman's  breast. 

There  met  two  rivals  in  deadly  strife, 

And  they  fought  for  this   woman  so  pale  and 

proud. 
One  was  a  man  in  the  prime  of  life, 

And  one  was  a  corpse  in  a  moldy  shroud; 
One  wrapped  in  a  sheet  from  his  head  to  his  feet, 

The  other  one  clothed  in  worldly  fashion; 
But  a  rival  to  dread  is  a  man  who  is  dead, 

If  he  has  been  loved  in  life  with  passion. 

The  living  lover  he  battled  with  sighs, 

He  strove   for    the    woman    with    words  that 
burned, 

While  stiff  and  stark  lay  the  corpse   in  the   dark, 
And  silently  yearned  and  yearned  and  yearned. 


AND  OTHER  POEMS.  35 

One  spoke  of  the  rapture  that  life  still  held 
For  hearts  that  yielded  to  love's  desire, 

And  one  through  the  cold  grave's  earthy  mold 
Sent  thoughts  of  a  past  that  were  fraught  with 
fire 

The  living  lover  seized  hold  of  her  hands — 

"You  are   mine,"  he  cried,  "and  we   will   not 

part  ! " 
But  she  felt  the  clutch  of  the  dead  man's  touch 

On  the  tense-drawn  strings  of  her  aching  heart. 
Yet  the  touch  was  of  ice,   and  she  shrank  with 
fear — 

Oh  !  the  hands  of  the  dead  are  cold,  so  cold — 
And  warm  were  the  arms  that  waited  near 

To  gather  her  close  in  their  clinging  fold. 

And  warm  was  the  light  in  the  living  eyes, 

But  the  eyes  of  the  dead,  how  they  stare   and 

stare  ! 
With  sudden  surrender  she  turned  to  the  tender 

And  passionate  lover  who  wooed  her  there. 
Farewell  to  sorrow,  hail,  sweet  to-morrow ! 

The  battle  was  over,  the  duel  was  done. 
They  swooned  in  the  blisses  of  love's  fond  kisses, 

And  the  dead  man  stared  on  in  the  dark  alone. 


36  CUSTER, 


"LOVE  THYSELF  LAST." 

CE   thyself  last.     Look   near,   behold  thy 
duty 
To   those  who  walk   beside  thee    down 
life's  road; 

Make  glad  their  days  by  little  acts  of  beauty, 
And  help  them  bear  the  burden  of  earth's  load. 

Love  thyself  last.    Look  far  and  find  the  stranger, 
Who  staggers  'neath  his  sin  and  his  despair; 

Go  lend  a  hand,  and  lead  him  out  of  danger, 
To  hights  where  he  may  see  the  world  is  fair. 

Love  thyself  last.     The  vastnesses  above  thee 
Are  filled  with  Spirit  Forces,  strong  and   pure. 

And    fervently,  these  faithful  friends   shall  love 

thee: 
Keep  thou  thy  watch  o'er  others,  and  endure. 

Love  thyself  last;  and  oh,  such  joy  shall  thrill 
thee, 

As  never  yet  to  selfish  souls  was  given. 
Whate'er  thy  lot,  a  perfect  peace  will  fill  thee, 

And  earth  shall  seem  the  ante-room  of  Heaven. 


AND  OTHER  POEMS.  3* 

Love  thyself  last,  and  thou  shall  grow  in  spirit 
To  see,  to  hear,  to  know,  and  understand. 

The  message  of  the  stars,  lo,  thou  shall  hear  it, 
And  all  God's  joys  shall  be  at  thy  command. 


3&  CUSTER, 


CHRISTMAS     FANCIES. 

HEN  Christmas  bells  are  swinging  above 

the  fields  of  snow, 
We    hear    sweet    voices    ringing    from    lands  of 
long  ago. 

And  etched  on  vacant  places, 
Are  half  forgotten  faces 
Of  friends  we  used  to  cherish,  and  loves  we  used 

to  know — 

When   Christmas   bells    are   swinging   above  the 
fields  of  snow. 

Uprising  from  the  ocean  of  the  present  surging 

near, 
We  see,  with   strange  emotion   that  is  not  free 

from  fear, 

That  continent  Elysian 
Long  vanished  from  our  vision, 
Youth's  lovely  lost  Atlantis,  so  mourned   for  and 

so  dear, 
Uprising  from  the  ocean  of  the  present  surging 

near. 


AND  OTHER  POEMS.  39 

When    gloomy    gray    Decembers  are    roused  to 
Christmas  mirth, 

The  dullest  life  remembers  there  once  was  joy  on 
earth, 

And  draws  from  youth's  recesses 
Some  memory  it  possesses, 

And,  gazing  through  the  lens  of  time,  exaggerates 
its  worth, 

When  gloomy  gray  December  is  roused  to  Christ 
mas  mirth. 

When  hanging  up  the  holly  or  mistletoe,  I  wis 
Each  heart  recalls  some  folly  that  lit  the  world 
with  bliss. 

Not  all  the  seers  and  sages 
With  wisdom  of  the  ages 
Can  give  the  mind  such  pleasure  as  memories  of 

that  kiss 
When  hanging  up  the  holly  or  mistletoe,  I  wis. 

For   life  was  made    for   loving,  and   love   alone 

repays, 
As  passing  years  are  proving  for  all  of  Time's  sad 

ways. 

There  lies  a  sting  in  pleasure, 
And  fame  gives  shallow  measure, 
And  wealth   is  but    a    phantom  that  mocks  the 

restless  days, 
For  life  was  made  for  loving,  and  only  loving 

pays. 


40  OUSTER, 

When  Christmas  bells  are  pelting  the   air  with 

silver  chimes, 
And    silences    are    melting    to    soft,    melodious 

rhymes, 

Let  Love,  the  world's  beginning, 
End  fear  and  hate  and  sinning; 
Let  Love,  the   God    Eternal,  be  worshiped  in  all 

climes 
When  Christmas  bells  are    pelting   the  air  with 

silver  chimes. 


AND  OTHER  POEMS.  41 


THE   RIVER. 

I  AM  a  river  flowing  from  God's  sea 
Through   devious   ways.      He    mapped   my 
course  for  me; 

I  cannot  change  it;  mine  alone  the  toil 
To  keep  the  waters  free  from  grime  and  soil. 
The  winding  river  ends  where  it  began; 
And  when  my  life  has  compassed  its  brief  span 
I  must  return  to  that  mysterious  source. 
So  let  me  gather  daily  on  my  course 
The  perfume  from  the  blossoms  as  I  pass, 
Balm  from  the  pines,  and  healing  from  the  grass, 
And  carry  down  my  current  as  I  go 
Not  common  stones  but  precious  gems  to  show; 
And  tears  (the  holy  water  from  sad  eyes) 
Back  to  God's  sea,  from  which  all  rivers  rise 
Let  me  convey,  not  blood  from  wounded  hearts, 
Nor  poison  which  the  upas  tree  imparts. 
When  over  flowery  vales  I  leap  with  joy, 
Let  me  not  devastate  them,  nor  destroy, 
But  rather  leave  them  fairer  to  the  sight; 
Mine  be  the  lot  to  comfort  and  delight. 
And  if  down  awful  chasms  I  needs  must  leap 


42  CUSTER, 

Let  me  not  murmur  at  my  lot,  but  sweep 
On  bravely  to  the  end  without  one  fear, 
Knowing  that  He  who  planned  my  ways  stands 

near. 

Love  sent  me  forth,  to  Love  I  go  again, 
For  Love  is  all,  and  over  all.     Amen. 


AND  OTHER  POEMS.  43 


SORRY. 

&\  HERE  is  much  that  makes  me  sorry  as  I  jour- 
41_  ney  down  life's  way. 

And  I  seem  to  see  more  pathos  in  poor  human 
lives  each  day. 

I'm  sorry  for  the  strong  brave  men,  who  shield 
the  weak  from  harm, 

But  who,  in  their  own  troubled  hours  find  no  pro 
tecting  arm. 

I'm  sorry  for  the  victors  who  have  reached  suc 
cess,  to  stand 

As  targets  for  the  arrows  shot  by  envious  failure's 
hand. 

I'm  sorry  for  the  generous  hearts  who  freely 
shared  their  wine, 

But  drink  alone  the  gall  of  tears  in  fortune's 
drear  decline. 

I'm  sorry  for  the  souls  who  build  their  own  fame's 

funeral  pyre, 
Derided  by  the  scornful  throng  like  ice  deriding 

fire. 


44  CUSTER, 

I'm  sorry  for  the  conquering  ones  who  know  not 

sin's  defeat, 
But  daily  tread  down  fierce  desire  'neath  scorched 

and  bleeding  feet. 

I'm  sorry  for  the  anguished  hearts  that  break  with 

passion's  strain, 
But   I'm  sorrier  for  the  poor  starved  souls  that 

never  knew  love's  pain. 
Who  hunger  on  through  barren  years  not  tasting 

joys  they  crave, 
For  sadder  far  is  such  a  lot  than  weeping  o'er  a 

grave. 

I'm  sorry  for  the  souls    that  come  unwelcomed 

into  birth, 
I'm  sorry  for  the  unloved  old  who  cumber  up  the 

earth. 
I'm  sorry  .for  the   suffering   poor  in  life's  great 

maelstrom  hurled, 
In  truth  I'm  sorry  for  them  all  who    make  this 

aching  world. 

But  underneath  whate'er  seems  sad    and    is  not 

understood, 
I  know  there  lies  hid  from  our  sight  a  mighty 

germ  of  good. 
And  this  belief  stands  firm  by  me,  my  sermon, 

motto,  text — 
The  sorriest  things  in  this  life  will  seem  grandest 

in  the  next. 


AND  OTHER  POEMS.  45 


THE  OLD  WOODEN  CRADLE. 

"(JOD-BYE  to  the  cradle,  the  dear  wooden 

cradle 

The  rude  hand  of  Progress  has  thrust  it  aside. 
No  more  to  its  motion  o'er  sleep's  fairy  ocean, 
Our  play-weary  wayfarers  peacefully  glide. 

No  more  by  the  rhythm  of  slow-moving  rocker, 
Their  sweet  dreamy  fancies  are  fostered  and  fed ; 

No  more  to  low  singing  the  cradle  goes  swinging — 
The  child  of  this  era  is  put  into  bed. 

Good-bye  to  the  cradle,  the  dear  wooden  cradle, 

It  lent  to  the  twilight  a  strange,  subtle  charm; 

When  bees  left  the  clover,  when  play-time  was 

over, 

How  safe  seemed  this  shelter  from  danger  or 
harm. 

How  soft  seemed  the  pillow,  how  distant  the  ceil 
ing, 
How   weird   were   the   voices   that   whispered 

around, 
What  dreams  would  come  flocking,  as  rocking  and 

rocking, 
We  floated  away  into  slumber  profound. 


46  CUSTER, 

Good-bye  to  the  cradle,  the  old  wooden  cradle, 
The  babe  of  to-day  does  not  know  it  by  sight. 

When   day   leaves  the  border,  with  system  and 

order, 
The  child  goes  to  bed  and  we  put  out  the  light. 

I  bow  to  Progression  and  ask  no  concession, 
Though  strewn  be  her  pathway  with  wrecks   of 
the  past  ; 

So  off  with  old  lumber,  that  sweet  ark  of  slumber, 
The  old  wooden  cradle,  is  ruthlessly  cast. 


AND  OTHER  POEMS. 


AMBITION'S    TRAIL. 

<?TF  all  the  end  of  this  continuous  striving 
HI      Were  simply  to  attain, 

^-^-How  poor  would  seem  the  planning  and  con 
triving 

The  endless  urging  and  the  hurried  driving 
Of  body,  heart  and  brain  ! 

But  ever  in  the  wake  of  true  achieving, 

There  shines  this  glowing  trail — 
Some  other  soul  will  be  spurred  on,  conceiving, 
New  strength  and  hope,  in  its  own  power  believ 
ing, 

Because  thou  didst  not  fail. 

Not  thine  alone  the  glory,  nor  the  sorrow, 

If  thou  doth  miss  the  goal, 
Undreamed  of  lives  in  many  a  far  to-morrow 
From  thee  their  weakness  or  their  force    shall 
borrow — 

On,  on,  ambitious  soul. 


48  CUSTER, 


THE  TRAVELED   MAN. 

.OMETIMES  I  wish  the  railroads  all  were 
torn  out, 

The    ships   all    sunk   among   the   coral 
strands. 

I  am  so  very  weary,  yea,  so  worn  out, 
With  tales  of  those  who  visit  foreign  lands. 

When  asked  to  dine,  to  meet  these  traveled  people, 
My  soup  seems  brewed  from  cemetery  bones. 

The  fish  grows  cold  on  some  cathedral  steeple, 
I  miss  two  courses  while  I  stare  at  thrones. 

I'm  forced  to  leave  my  salad  quite  untasted, 
Some  musty,  moldy  temple  to  explore. 

The  ices,  fruit  and  coffee  all  are  wasted 
While  into  realms  of  ancient  art  I  soar. 

I'd  rather  take  my  chance  of  life  and  reason, 

If  in  a  den  of  roaring  lions  hurled 
Than  for  a  single  year,  ay,  for  one  season, 

To  dwell  with  folks  who'd  traveled  round  the 
world. 


AND  OTHER  POEMS.  49 

So  patronizing  are  they,  so  oppressive, 
With  pity  for  the  ones  who  stay  at  home, 

So  mighty  is  their  knowledge,  so  aggressive, 
I  ofttimes  wish  they  had  not  ceased  to  roam. 

They  loathe  the  new, they  quite  detest  the  present; 

They  revel  in  a  pre-Columbian  morn; 
Just  dare  to  say  America  is  pleasant, 

And  die  beneath  the  glances  of  their  scorn. 

They  are  increasing  at  a  rate  alarming, 
Go  where  I  will,  the  traveled  man  is  there. 

And  now  I  think  that  rustic  wholly  charming 
Who  has  not  strayed  beyond  his  meadows  fair. 


5o  CUSTER, 


UNCONTROLLED. 

I  HE  mighty  forces  of  mysterious  space 
ell      Are  one  by  one  subdued  by  lordly  man. 

The  awful  lightning  that  for  eons  ran 
Their  devastating  and  untrammeled  race, 
Now  bear  his  messages  from  place  to  place 

Like  carrier  doves.     The  winds  lead  on  his  van; 

The  lawless  elements  no' longer  can 
Resist  his  strength,  but  yield  with  sullen  grace. 

His  bold  feet  scaling  heights  before  untrod, 
Light,  darkness,  air  and  water,  heat  and  cold 
He  bids  go  forth  and  bring  him  power  and 

pelf. 
And  yet  though  ruler,  king  and  demi-god 

He  walks  with  his  fierce  passions  uncontrolled 
The  conquerer  of  all  things — save  himself. 


AND  OTHER  POEMS. 


THE  TULIP  BED  AT  GREELEY  SQUARE. 

^s 

OU  know  that  oasis,  fresh  and  fair 
In  the  c»ty  desert,  as  Greeley  square? 

That  bright  triangle  of  scented  bloom 
That  lies  svrrounded  by  grime  and  gloom? 

Right  in  the  breast  of  the  seething  town 
Like  a  gleaming  gem  or  a  wanton's  gown? 

Ah,  wonderful  things  that  tulip  bed 
Unto  my  listening  soul  has  said. 

Over  the  rattle  and  roar  of  the  street 
I  hear  a  chorus  of  voices  sweet, 

Day  and  night,  when  I  pass  that  way, 
And  these  are  the  things  the  voices  say: 

"  Here,  in  the  heart  of  the  foolish  strife, 
We  live  a  simple  and  natural  life. 

"  Here,  in  the  midst  of  the  clash  and  din, 
We  know  what  it  is  to  be  calm  within. 

"  Here,  environed  by  sin  and  shame, 

We  do  what  we  can  with  our  pure  white  flame. 


52  CUSTER, 

11  We  do  what  we  can  with  our  bloom  and  grace, 
To  make  the  city  a  fairer  place. 

"  It  is  well  to  be  good  though  the  world  is  vile, 
And  so  through  the  dust  and  the  smoke  we  smile, 

11  We  are  but  atoms  in  chaos  tossed, 
Yet  never  a  purpose  for  truth  was  lost." 

Ah,  many  a  sermon  is  uttered  there 

By  the  bed  of  blossoms  in  Greeley  square. 

And  he  who  listens  and  hears  aright, 

Is  better  equipped  for  the  world's  hard  fight. 


AND  OTHER  POEMS.  53 


WILL. 

will  be  what  you  will  to  be; 
Let  failure  find  its  false  content 
In  that  poor  word  "  environment," 
But  spirit  scorns  it,  and  is  free, 

It  masters  time,  it  conquers  space, 
It  cows  that  boastful  trickster  Cl  ance, 
And  bids  the  tyrant  Circumstance 

Uncrown  and  fill  a  servant's  place. 

The  human  Will,  that  force  unseen, 
The  offspring  of  a  deathless  Soul, 
Can  hew  the  way  to  any  goal, 

Though  walls  of  granite  intervene. 

Be  not  impatient  in  delay, 
But  wait  as  one  who  understands; 
When  spirit  rises  ancl  commands, 

The  gods  are  ready  to  obey. 

The  river  seeking  for  the  sea 
Confronts  the  dam  and  precipice, 
Yet  knows  it  cannot  fail  or  miss; 

You  will  be  what  you  will  to  be! 


54  OUSTER, 


TO  AN  ASTROLOGER. 

|AY,  seer,  I  do  not  doubt  thy  mystic  lore, 
Nor  question  that  the  tenor  of  my  life, 

'Past,  present  and  the  future,  is  revealed 
There  in  my  horoscope.     I  do  believe 
That  yon  dead  moon  compels  the  haughty  seas 
To  ebb  and  flow,  and  that  my  natal  star 
Stands  like  a  stern-browed  sentinel  in  space 
And  challenges  events;  nor  lets  one  grief, 
Or  joy,  or  failure,  or  success,  pass  on 
To  mar  or  bless  my  earthly  lot,  until 
It  proves  its  Karmic  right  to  come  to  me. 

All  this  I  grant,  but  more  than  this  I  know! 
Before  the  solar  systems  were  conceived, 
When  nothing  was  but  the  unnamable, 
My  spirit  lived,  an  atom  of  the  Cause. 
Through  countless  age,s  and  in  many  forms 
It  has  existed,  ere  it  entered  in 
This  human  frame  to  serve  its  little  day 
Upon  the  earth.     The  deathless  Me  of  me, 
The  spark  from  that  great  all-creative  fire 
Is  part  of  that  eternal  source  called  God, 
And  mightier  than  the  universe. 


AND  OTHER  POEMS.  55 

Why,  he 

Who  knows,  and  knowing,  never  once  forgets 
The  pedigree  divine  of  his  own  soul, 
Can  conquer,  shape  and  govern  destiny 
And  use  vast  space  as  'twere  a  board  for  chess 
With  stars  for  pawns;   can  change  his  horoscope 
To  suit  his  will;  turn  failure  to  sirccess, 
And  from  preordained  sorrows,  harvest  joy. 

There  is  no  puny  planet,  sun  or  moon, 
Or  zodiacal  sign  which  can  control 
The  God  in  us!     If  we  bring  that  to  bear 
Upon  events,  we  mold  them  to  our  wish, 
Tis  when  the  infinite  'neath  the  finite  gropes 
That  men  are  governed  by  their  horoscopes. 


56  CUSTER, 


THE  TENDRIL'S  FAITH. 

(a«~rNDER  the  snow  in  the  dark  and  the  cold, 
t(?l      ^  Pa^e  l^6  sprout  was  humming; 
^4^~^>  Sweetly  it  sang,  'neath  the  frozen  mold, 
Of  the  beautiful  days  that  were  coming. 

"  How  foolish  your  songs,"  said  a  lump  of  clay, 
"What  is  there,  I  ask,  to  prove  them? 

Just  look  at  the  walls  between  you  and  the  day, 
Now,  have  you  the  strength  to  move  them?" 

But  under  the  ice  and  under  the  snow 
The  pale  little  sprout  kept  singing, 

"  I  cannot  tell  how,  but  I  know,  I  know, 
I  know  what  the  days  are  bringing." 

"  Birds,  and  blossoms,  and  buzzing  bees, 

Blue,  blue  skies  above  me, 
Bloom  on  the  meadows  and  buds  on  the  trees, 

And  the  great  glad  sun  to  love  me." 

A  pebble  spoke  next:  "You  are  quite  absurd.' 
It  said,  "  with  your  song's  insistence; 

For  /never  saw  a  tree  or  a  bird, 
So  of  course  there  are  none  in  existence." 

"  But  I  know,  I  know,"  the  tendril  cried, 

In  beautiful  sweet  unreason; 
Till  lo!  from  its  prison,  glorified, 

It  burst  in  the  glad  spring  season. 


AND  OTHER  POEMS.  57 


THE  TIMES. 

(bl  HE  times  are  not  degenerate.     Man's  faith 
eJ|     Mounts  higher  than  of  old.     No  crumbling 

creed 
Can  take  from  the  immortal  soul  the  need 

Of  that  supreme  Creator,  God.     The  wraith 
Of  dead  beliefs  we  cherished  in  our  youth 
Fades  but  to  let  us  welcome  new-born  Truth. 

Man  may  not  worship  at  the  ancient  shrine 
Prone  on  his  face,  in  self-accusing  scorn. 
That  night  is  past.     He  hails  a  fairer  morn, 

And  knows  himself  a  something  all  divine; 
No  humble  worm  whose  heritage  is  sin, 

But,  born  of  God,  he  feels  the  Christ  within. 

* 

Not  loud  his  prayers,  as  in  the  olden  time, 
But  deep  his  reverence  for  that  mighty  force, 
That  occult  working  of  the  great  all  Source, 

Which  makes  the  present  era  so  sublime. 
Religion  now  means  something  high  and  broad, 
And  man  stood  never  half  so  near  to  God. 


58  OUSTER, 


THE  QUESTION. 

ESIDE  us  in  our  seeking  after  pleasures, 
Through    all    our    restless    striving   aftet 

fame, 
Through   all   our  search   for   worldly   gains   and 

treasures, 

There  walketh  one  whom  no  man  likes  to  name. 
Silent  he  follows,  veiled  of  form  and  feature, 

Indifferent  if  we  sorrow  or  rejoice, 
Yet  that  day  comes  when  every  living  creature 
Must  look  upon  his  face  and  hear  his  voice. 

When   that  day  comes  to  you,  and  Death,  un 
masking, 

Shall   bar  your   path,    and   say,    "  Behold  the 

Aid," 
What  are  the  questions  that  he  will  be  asking 

Aboutyourpast?     Have  you  considered,  friend? 
I  think  he  will  not  chide  you  for  your  sinning, 

Nor  for  your  creeds  or  dogmas  will  he  care; 
He  will  but  ask,  "From  your  life's  first  beginning 

How  many  burdens  have  you  helped  to  bear?" 


AND  OTHER  POEMS.  59 


SORROW'S  USES. 

>  T*1  -  ' 

wjj  HE  uses  of  sorrow  I  comprehend 

el|      Better  and  better  at  each  year's  end. 

Deeper  and  deeper  I  seem  to  see 
Why  and  wherefore  it  has  to  be 

Only  after  the  dark,  wet  days 

Do  we  fully  rejoice  in  the  sun's  bright  rays. 

Sweeter  the  crust  tastes  after  the  fast 
Than  the  sated  gourmand's  finest  repast. 

The  faintest  cheer  sounds  never  amiss 
To  the  actor  who  once  has  heard  a  hiss. 

To  one  who  the  sadness  of  freedom  l^nows, 
Light  seem  the  fetters  love  may  impose. 

And  he  who  has  dwelt  with  his  heart  alone, 
Hears  all  the  music  in  friendship's  tone. 

So  better  and  better  I  comprehend, 
How  sorrow  ever  would  be  our  friend. 


6o  CUSTER, 


IF. 

&\  WIXT  what  thou  art,  and  what  thou  wouldst 
4|_  be,  let 

No  "  If"  arise  on  which  to  .lay  the  blame. 
Man  makes  a  mountain  of  that  puny  word, 
But,  like  a  blade  of  grass  before  the  scythe, 
It  falls  and  withers  when  a  human  will, 
Stirred  by  creative  force,  sweeps  toward  its  aim. 

Thou  wilt  be  what  thou  couldst  be.  Circumstance 
Is  but  the  toy  of  genius.     When  a  soul 
Burns  with  a  god-like  purpose  to  achieve, 
All  obstacles  between  it  and  its  goal 
Must  vanish  as  the  dew  before  the  sun. 

"  If"  is  the  motto  of  the  dilettante 

And  idle  dreamer;  'tis  the  poor  excuse 

Of  mediocrity.     The  truly  great 

Know  not  the  word,  or  know  it  but  to  scorn, 

Else  had  Joan  of  Arc  a  peasant  died, 

Uncrowned  by  glory  and  by  men  unsung. 


AND  OTHER  POEMS.  61 


W.HICH   ARE  YOU? 

Ml  HERE   are   two    kinds   of   people  on   earth 
4L     to-day; 
Just  two  kinds  of  people,  no  more,  I  say. 

Not  the  sinner  and  saint,  for  it's  well  under 
stood, 

The  good  are  half  bad,  and  the  bad  are  half 
good. 

Not  the  rich  and  the  poor,  for  to  rate  a  man's 

wealth, 
You  must  first  know  the  state  of  his  conscience 

and  health. 

Not  the  humble  and  proud,  for  in  life's  little 

span, 
Who  puts  on  vain  airs,  is  not  counted  a  man. 

Not  the   happy  and  sad,   for  the  swift  flying 

years 
Bring   each   man   his   laughter  and   each   man 

his  tears. 


62  CUSTER, 

No;  the  two  kinds  of  people  on  earth  I  mean, 
Are  the  people  who  lift,  and  the  people  who 
lean. 

Wherever   you   go,   you    will    find   the   earth's 
masses, 

Are  always  divided  in  just  these  two  classes. 

* 

And  oddly  enough,  you  will  find  t'oo,  I  ween, 
There  's  only  one  lifter  to  twenty  who  lean. 

In  which  class  are  you?     Are  you  easing  the 

load, 
Of  overtaxed  lifters,  who  toil  down  the  road? 

Or  are  you  a  leaner,  who  lets  others  share 
Your  portion  of  labor,  and  worry  and  care? 


AND  OTHER  POEMS.  63 


THE  CREED   TO   BE. 

UR  thoughts  are  molding  unmade  spheres, 

And,  like  a  blessing  or  a  curse, 
They  thunder  down  the  formless  years, 
And  ring  throughout  the  universe. 

We  build  our  futures,  by  the  shape 

Of  our  desires,  and  not  by  acts. 
There  is  no  pathway  of  escape; 

No  priest-made  creeds  can  alter  facts. 

Salvation  is  not  begged  or  bought; 

Too  long  this  selfish  hope  sufficed; 
Too  long  man  reeked  with  lawless  thought, 

And  leaned  upon  a  tortured  Christ. 

Like  shriveled  leaves,  these  worn  out  creeds 
Are  dropping  from  Religion's  tree; 

The  world  begins  to  know  its  needs, 
And  souls  are  crying  to  be  free. 

Free  from  the  load  of  fear  and  grief, 
Man  fashioned  in  an  ignorant  age; 

Free  from  the  ache  of  unbelief 
He  fled  to  in  rebellious  rage. 


64  CUSTER, 

No  church  can  bind  him  to  the  things 
That  fed  the  first  crude  souls,  evolved; 

For,  mounting  up  on  daring  wings, 
He  questions  mysteries  all  unsolved. 

Above  the  chant  of  priests,  above 
The  blatant  voice  of  braying  doubt, 

He  hears  the  still,  small  voice  of  Love, 
Which  sends  its  simple  message  out. 

And  clearer,  sweeter,  day  by  day, 

Its  mandate  echoes  from  the  skies, 
"  Go  roll  the  stone  of  self  away, 

And  let  the  Christ  within  thee  rise/ 


AND  OTHER  POEMS.  65 


MUSIC  IN  THE  FLAT. 

HEN  Tom  and  I  were  married,  we  took  a 

little  flat; 

I  had  a  taste  for  singing  and  playing  and  all  that. 
And  Tom,  who  loved  to  hear  me,  said  he  hoped 

I  would  not  stop 
All   practice,  like  so   many  wives  who  let  their 

music  drop. 

So  I  resolved  to  set  apart  an  hour  or  two  each  day 
To  keeping  vocal  chords  and  hands  in  trim  to  sing 
and  play. 

The  second  morning  I  had  been  for  half  an  hour 

or  more 
At  work  on  Haydn's  masses,  when  a  tap  came  at 

my  door. 
A  nurse,  who  wore  a  dainty  cap  and  apron,  and  a 

smile, 
Ran  down  to  ask  if   I  would  cease  my  music  for 

awhile. 

The  lady  in  the  flat  above  was  very  ill,  she  said, 
And  the  sound  of  my  piano  was  distracting  to  her 

head. 


66  CUSTER, 

A   fortnight's   exercises    lost,  ere   I    began  them, 

when, 
The  following  morning  at  my  door,  there  came 

that  tap  again; 
A  woman  with  an  anguished  face  implored  me  to 

forego 
My  music  for  some  days  to  come — a  man  was 

dead  below. 
I  shut  down  my  piano  till  the  corpse  had  left  the 

house, 
And  spoke  to  Tom  in  whispers  and  was  quiet  as  a 

mouse. 

A  week  of  labor  limbered  up  my  stiffened  hand 

and  voice, 
I  stole  an  extra  hour  from  sleep,  to  practice  and 

rejoice; 
When,  ting-a-ling,  the  door-bell  rang  a  discord  in 

my  trill — 

The  baby  in  the  flat  across  was  very,  very  ill. 
For  ten  long  days  that  infant's  life  was  hanging 

by  a  thread, 
And  all  that  time  my  instrument  was  silent  as  the 

dead. 

So  pain  and  death  and   sickness    came   in   one 

perpetual  row, 
When  babies  were  not  born  above,  then  tenants 

died  below. 


AND  OTHER  POEMS.  67 

The  funeral  over  underneath,  some  one  fell  ill  on 

top, 
And  begged  me,  for  the  love  of  God,  to  let  my 

music  drop. 
When  trouble  went  not  up  or  down,   it  stalked 

across  the  hall, 
And  so  in  spite  of  my  resolve,  I  do  not  play  at  all. 


68  OUSTER, 


INSPIRATION. 

like  a  daring,  bold,  aggressive  boy, 
Is  inspiration,  eager  to  pursue, 
But  rather  like  a  maiden,  fond,  yet  coy, 
Who  gives  herself  to  him  who  best  doth  woo. 

Once  she  may  smile,  or  thrice,  thy  soul  to  fire, 
In  passing  by,  but  when  she  turns  her  face, 

Thou  must  persist  and  seek  her  with  desire, 
If  thou  wouldst  win  the  favor  of  her  grace. 

And  if,  like  some  winged  bird  she  cleaves  the  air, 
And   leaves   thee   spent   and    stricken   on   the 
earth, 

Still  must  thou  strive  to  follow  even  there, 
That  she  may  know  thy  valor  and  thy  worth. 

Then  shall  she  come  unveiling  all  her  charms, 
Giving  thee  joy  for  pain,  and  smiles  for  tears; 

Then  shalt  thou  clasp  her  with  possessing  arms, 
The  while  she  murmurs  music  in  thine  ears. 

But  ere  her  kiss  has  faded  from  thy  cheek, 
She  shall  flee  from  thee  over  hill  and  glade, 

So  must  thou  seek  and  ever  seek  and  seek 

For  each  new  conquest  of  this  phantom  maid. 


AND  OTHER  POEMS.  69 


THE  WISH. 

HOULD  some  great  angel  say  to    me  to 
morrow, 

"  Thou  must  re-tread  thy  pathway  from 
the  start, 
But  God  will  grant,  in  pity,  for  thy  sorrow, 

Some  one  dear  wish,  the  nearest  to  thy  heart/ 

This  were  my  wish!  from  my  life's  dim  beginning 
Let   be   what  has    been!    wisdom    planned   the 
whole; 

My  want,  my  woe,  my  errors,  and  my  sinning, 
All,  all  were  needed  lessons  for  my  soul. 


70  CUSTER, 


THREE  FRIENDS. 

F  all  the  blessings  which  my  life  has  known, 
1 1  value  most,  and  most  praise  God  for  three: 
Want,  Loneliness  and  Pain,  those  comrades 
true, 

Who,  masqueraded  in  the  garb  of  foes 
For  many  a  year,  and  filled  my  heart  with  dread. 
Yet  fickle  joys,  like  false,  pretentious  friends, 
Have  proved  less  worthy  than  this  trio.    First, 

Want  taught  me  labor,  led  me  up  the  steep 
And  toilsome  paths  to  hills  of  pure  delight, 
Trod  only  by  the  feet  that  know  fatigue, 
And  yet  press  on  until  the'heights  appear. 

Then  loneliness  and  hunger  of  the  heart 
Sent  me  upreachingto  the  realms  of  space, 
Till  all  the  silences  grew  eloquent, 
And  all  their  loving  forces  hailed  me  friend. 

Last,  pain  taught  prayer  !  placed  in  my  hand  the 

staff 

Of  close  communion  with  the  over-soul, 
That  I  might  lean  upon  it  to  the  end, 
And  find  myself  made  strong  for  any  strife. 


AND  OTHER  POEMS.  71 

And  then  these  three  who  had  pursued  my  steps 
Like  stern,  relentless  foes,  year  after  year, 
Unmasked,  and  turned  their  faces  full  on  me, 
And  lo  !  they  were  divinely  beautiful, 
For  through   them   shone   the   lustrous   eyes  of 
Love. 


72  OUSTER, 


YOU  NEVER  CAN  TELL. 

OU  never  can  tell  when  you  send  a  word, 

Like  an  arrow  shot  from  a  bow 
By  an  archer  blind,  be  it  cruel  or  kind, 

Just  where  it  may  chance  to  go. 
It  may  pierce  the  breast  of  your  dearest  friend. 

Tipped  with  its  poison  or  balm, 
To  a  stranger's  heart  in  life's  great  mart, 
It  may  carry  its  pain  or  its  calm. 

You  never  can  tell  when  you  do  an  act 

Just  what  the  result  will  be; 
But  with  every  deed  you  are  sowing  a  seed, 

Though  the  harvest  you  may  not  see. 
Each  kindly  act  is  an  acorn  dropped 

In  God's  productive  soil 
You  may  not  know,  but  the  tree  shall  grow, 

With  shelter  for  those  who  toil. 

You  never  can  tell  what  your  thoughts  will  do, 

In  bringing  you  hate  or  love; 
For  thoughts  are  things,  and  their  airy  wings 

Are  swifter  than  carrier  doves. 
They  follow  the  law  of  the  universe — 

Each  thing  must  create  its  kind, 
And  they  speed  o'er  the  track  to  bring  you  back 

Whatever  went  out  from  your  mind. 


AND  OTHER  POEMS.  73 


HERE  AND  NOW. 

ERE,  in  the  heart  of  the  world, 
Here,  in  the  noise  and  the  din, 

Here,  where  our  spirits  were  hurled 
To  battle  with  sorrow  and  sin, 
This  is  the  place  and  the  spot 

For  knowledge  of  infinite  things; 
This  is  the  kingdom  where  Thought 
Can  conquer  the  prowess  of  kings. 

Wait  for  no  heavenly  life, 

Seek  for  no  temple  alone; 
Here,  in  the  midst  of  the  strife, 

Know  what  the  sages  have  known. 
See  what  the  Perfect  Ones  saw — 

God  in  the  depth  of  each  soul, 
God  as  the  light  and  the  law, 

God  as  beginning  and  goal. 

Earth  is  one  chamber  of  Heaven, 

Death  is  no  grander  than  birth. 
Joy  in  the  life  that  was  given, 

Strive  for  perfection  on  earth. 


74  CUSTER, 

Here,  in  the  turmoil  and  roar, 
Show  what  it  is   to  be  calm; 

Show  how  the  spirit  can  soar 

And  bring  back  its  healing  and  balm. 

Stand  not  aloof  nor  apart, 

Plunge  in  the  thick  of  the  fight. 
There  in  the  street  and  the  mart, 

That  is  the  place  to  do  right. 
Not  in  some  cloister  or  cave, 

Not  in  some  kingdom  above, 
Here,  on  this  side  of  the  grave, 

Here,  should  we  labor  and  love. 


AND  OTHER  POEMS.  75 


UNCONQUERED. 

CVEVER  skilled  and  strong  art  thou,  my 
foe, 
However  fierce  is  thy  relentless  hate 
Though  firm  thy  hand,  and  strong  thy  aim,  and 

straight 

Thy  poisoned  arrow  leaves  the  bended  bow, 
To  pierce  the  target  of  my  heart,  ah!  know 
I  am  the  master  yet  of  my  own  fate. 
Thou  canst  not  rob  me  of  my  best  estate, 
Though  fortune,  fame  and  friends,  yea  love  shall 

go- 
Not  to  the  dust  shall  my  true  self  be  hurled; 
Nor  shall  I  meet  thy  worst  assaults  dismayed. 
When  all  things  in  the  balance  are  well  weighed, 
There  is  but  one  great  danger  in  the  world — 
Thou  canst  not  force  my  soul  to  wish  thee  ill, 
That  is  the  only  evil  that  can  kill. 


76  *  CUSTER, 


ALL  THAT  LOVE   ASKS. 

4  4  (sTf  LL  that  I  ask,"  says  Love,  "  is  just  to  stand 
And  gaze,  unchided,  deep  in  thy  dear  eyes ; 
For  in  their  depths  lies  largest  Paradise. 
Yet,  if  perchance  one  pressure  of  thy  hand 
Be  granted  me,  then  joy  I  thought  complete 
Were  still  more  sweet." 

"All  that  I  asjc,"  says  Love,  "all  that  I  ask, 
Is  just  thy  hand  clasp.     Could  I  brush  thy  cheek 
As  zephyrs  brush  a  rose  leaf,  words  are  weak 

To  tell  the  bliss  in  which  my  soul  would  bask. 
There  is  no  language  but  would  desecrate 
A  joy  so  great." 

"All  that  I  ask,  is  just  one  tender  touch 
Of  that  soft  cheek.     Thy  pulsing  palm  in  mine, 
Thy  dark  eyes  lifted  in  a  trust  divine 

And  those  curled  lips  that  tempt  me  overmuch 
Turned  where  I  may  not  seize  the  supreme  bliss 
Of  one  mad  kiss. 

"All  that  I  ask,"  says  Love,  "  of  life,  of  death. 
Or  of  high  heaven  itself,  is  just  to  stand, 
Glance  melting  into  glance,  hand  twined  in  hand, 


AND  OTHER  POEMS.  77 

The  while  I  drink  the  nectar  of  thy  breath, 
Ir,  one  sweet  kiss,  but  one,  of  all  thy  store, 
I  ask  no  more." 

"All  that  I  ask  " — nay,  self-deceiving  Love, 
Reverse  thy  phrase,  so  thus  the  words  may  fall, 
In  place  of  "all  I  ask,"  say,  "I  ask  all," 

All  that  pertains  to  earth  or  soars  above, 
All  that  thou  wert,  art,  will  be,  body,  soul, 
Love  asks  the  whole. 


"DOES   IT   PAY." 

IF  one  poor  burdened  toiler  o'er  life's  road, 
Who  meets  us  by  the  way, 
Goes  on  less  conscious  of  his  galling  load, 
Then  life  indeed,  does  pay. 

If  we  can  show  one  troubled  heart  the  gain, 

That  lies  alway  in  loss, 
Why,  then,  we  too,  are  paid  for  all  the  pain 

Of  bearing  life's  hard  cross. 

If  some  despondent  soul  to  hope  is  stirred, 

Some  sad  lip  made  to  smile, 
By  any  act  of  ours,  or  any  word, 

Then,  life  has  been  worth  while. 


78  OUSTER, 


SESTINA. 

ffT  WANDERED  o'er  the  vast  green  plains  of 
youth, 

^  And  searched  for  Pleasure.  On  a  distant 
height 

Fame's  silhouette  stood  sharp  against  the  skies. 

Beyond  vast  crowds  that  thronged  a  broad  high 
way 

I  caught  the  glimmer  of  a  golden  goal, 

While  from  a  blooming  bower  smiled  sfren  Love. 

Straight  gazing  in  her  eyes,  I  laughed  at  Love, 

With  all  the  haughty  insolence  of  youth, 

As  past  her  bower  I  strode  to  .seek  my  goal. 

"  Now  will  I  climb  to  glory's  dizzy  height,". 

I  said,"  for  there  above  the  common  way 

Doth  pleasure  dwell  companioned  by  the  skies." 

But  when  I  reached  that  summit  near  the  skies, 
So  far  from  man  I  seemed,  so  far  from  Love — 
"  Not  here,"  I  cried,  "doth  Pleasure  find  her  way," 
Seen  from  the  distant  borderland  of  youth. 
Fame  smiles  upon  us  from  her  sun-kissed  height, 
But  frowns  in  shadows  when  we  reach  the  goal. 


AND  OTHER  POEMS.  79 

Then  were  mine  eyes  fixed  on  that  glittering  goal, 
Dear  to  all  sense — sunk  souls  beneath  the  skies. 
Gold  tempts  the  artist  from  the  lofty  height, 
Gold  lures  the  maiden  from  the  arms  of  Love, 
Gold  buys  the  fresh  ingenuous  heart  of  youth, 
"And   gold,"    I  said,   "  will  show   me    Pleasure's 
way/' 

But  ah  !  the  soil  and  discord  of  that  way, 
Where  savage  hordes  rushed  headlong  to  the  goal, 
Dead  to  the  best  impulses  of  their  youth, 
Blind  to  the  azure  beauty  of  the  skies; 
Dulled  to  the  voice  of  conscience  and  of  love, 
They  wandered  far  from  Truth's  eternal  height. 

Then  Truth  spoke  to  me  from  that  noble  height, 
Saying  :  "  Thou  didst  pass  Pleasure  on  the  way, 
She  with  the  yearning  eyes  so  full  of  Love, 
Whom  thou  disdained  to  seek  for  glory's  goal." 
Two  blending  paths  beneath  God's  arching  skies 
Lead   straight  to    Pleasure.    Ah,  blind   heart   of 

youth, 
Not  up  fame's  height,  not  toward  the  base  god's 

goal, 
Doth   Pleasure  make   her  way,  but   'neath  calm 

skies 
Where  Duty  walks  with  Love  in  endless  youth. 


So  CUSTER, 


THE  OPTIMIST. 

&\  HE  fields  were  bleak  and  sodden.    Not  a  wing 
oil      Or  note  enlivened  the  depressing  wood, 
A  soiled  and  sullen,  stubborn  snowdrift  stood 
Beside  the  roadway.     Winds  came  muttering 
Of  storms  to  be,  and  brought  the  chilly  sting 
Of  icebergs  in  their  breath.    Stalled  cattle  mooed 
Forth  plaintive  pleadings  for  the  earth's  green 

food. 
No  gleam,  no  hint  of  hope  in  anything. 

The  sky  was  blank  and  ashen,  like  the  face 

Of  some  poor  wretch  who  drains  life's  cup  too 

fast. 

Yet,  swaying  to  and  fro,  as  if  to  fling 
About  chilled  Nature  its  lithe  arms  of  grace, 
Smiling  with  promise  in  the  wintry  blast, 
The  optimistic  Willow  spoke  of  spring. 


_  THE  PESSIMIST. 

(9JHE  pessimistic  locust,  last  to  leaf, 
(j|      Though  all  the  world  is  glad,  still  talks  of 
grief. 


AND  OTHER  POEMS.  81 


AN   INSPIRATION. 

Yg)fOWEVER  the  battle  is  ended 

Though  proudly  the  victor  comes 
^— -^    With  fluttering-  flags  and  prancing  nags 
And  echoing  roll  of  drums, 
Still  truth  proclaims  this  motto 

In  letters  of  living  light, — 
No  question  is  ever  settled 
Until  it  is  settled  right. 

Though  the  heel  of  the  strong  oppressor    , 

May  grind  the  weak  in  the  dust, 
And  the  voices  of  fame  with  one  acclaim 

May  call  him  great  and  just, 
Let  those  who  applaud  take  warning, 

And  keep  this  motto  in  sight, — 
No  question  is  ever  settled 

Until  it  is  settled  right. 

Let  those  who  have  failed  take  courage ; 

Tho'  the  enemy  seems  to  have  won, 
Tho'  his  ranks  are  strong,  if  he  be  in  the  wrong 

The  battle  is  not  yet  done ; 


82  CUSTER, 

For,  sure  as  the  morning  follows 
The  darkest  hour  of  the  night, 

No  question  is  ever  settled 
Until  it  is  settled  right. 

O  man  bowed  down  with  labor! 

O  woman  young,  yet  old ! 
O  heart  oppressed  in  the  toiler's  breast 

And  crushed  by  the  power  of  gold ! 
Keep  on  with  your  weary  battle 

Against  triumphant  might ; 
No  question  is  ever  settled 

Until  it  is  settled  right. 


AND  OTHER  POEMS.  83 


THE  HAMMOCK'S  COMPLAINT. 

.  s 

HO  thinks  how  desolate  and  strange 

To  me  must  seem  the  autumn's  change, 
When  housed  in  attic  or  in  chest, 
A  lonely  and  unwilling  guest, 
I  lie  through  nights  of  bleak  December, 
And  think  in  silence,  and  remember. 

I  think  of  hempen  fields,  where  I 

Once  played  with  insects  floating  by, 

And  joyed  alike  in  sun  and  r^in, 

Unconscious  of  approaching  pain. 

I  dwell  upon  my  later  lot, 

Where,  swung  in  some  secluded  spot 

Between  two  tried  and  trusted  trees, 

All  summer  long  I  wooed  the  breeze. 

With  song  of  bee  and  call  of  bird 

And  lover's  secrets  overheard, 

And  sight  and  scent  of  blooming  flowers, 

To  fill  the  happy  sunlight's  hours. 

When  verdant  fields  grow  bare  and  brown, 

When  forest  leaves  come  raining  down, 

When  frost  has  mated  with  the  weather 

And  all  the  birds  go  south  together, 

When  drying  boats  turn  up  their  keels, 

Who  wonders  how  the  hammock  feels? 


84  CUSTER, 


LIFE'S   HARMONIES. 

no  man  pray  that  he  know  not  sorrow, 
Let  no  soul  ask  to  be  free  from  pain, 

For  the  gall  of  to-day  is  the  sweet  of 
to-morrow, 
And  the  moment's  loss  is  the  lifetime's  gain. 

Through  want  of  a  thing  does  its  worth  redouble, 
Through  hunger's  pangs  does  the  feast  content, 

And  only  the  heart  that  has  harbored  trouble, 
Can  fully  rejoice  when  joy  is  sent. 

Let  no  man  shrink  from  the  bitter  tonics 
Of  grief,  and  yearning,  and  need,  and  strife, 

For  the  rarest  chords  in  the  soul's  harmonies, 
Are  found  in  the  minor  strains  of  life. 


AND  OTHER  POEMS.  85 


PREACHING  VS.  PRACTICE. 

(jjT'T  is  easy  to  sit  in  the  sunshine 

And  talk  to  the  man  in  the  shade; 
It  is  easy  to  float  in  a  well-trimmed  boat, 
And  point  out  the  places  to  wade. 

But  once  we  pass  into  the  shadows, 
We  murmur  and  fret  and  frown, 

And,  our  length  from  the  bank,  we  shout  for 

a  plank, 
Or  throw  up  our  hands  and  go  down. 

It  is  easy  to  sit  in  your  carriage, 

And  counsel  the  man  on  foot, 
But  get  down   and  walk,  and  you'll  change 
your  talk, 

As  you  feel  the  peg  in  your  boot. 

It  is  easy  to  tell  the  toiler 

How  best  he  can  carry  his  pack, 

But  no  one  can  rate  a  burden's  weight 
Until  it  has  been  on  his  back. 

The  up-curled  mouth  of  pleasure, 

Can  prate  of  sorrow's  worth, 
But  give  it  a  sip,  and  a  wryer  lip, 

Was  never  made  on  earth. 


86  OUSTER, 


AN  OLD  MAN  TO  HIS  SLEEPING  YOUNG  BRIDE. 

S  when  the  old  moon  lighted  by  the  tender 
And  radiant  crescent  of  the  new  is  seen, 

And  for  a  moment's  space  suggests  the 
splendor 

Of  what  in  its  full  prime  it  once  has  been, 
So  on  my  waning  years  you  cast  the  glory 
Of  youth  and  pleasure,  for  a  little  hour; 
And  life  again  seems  like  an  unread  story, 

And  joy  and  hope  both  stir  me  with  their  power. 

Can  blooming  June  be  fond  of  bleak  December? 

I  dare  not  wait  to  hear  my  heart  reply. 
1  will  forget  the  question — and  remember 

Alone  the  priceless  feast  spread  for  mine  eye, 
That  radiant  hair  that  flows  across  the  pillows, 

Like  shimmering  sunbeams  over  drifts  of  snow; 
Those  heaving  breasts,  like  undulating  billows, 

Whose  dangers  or  delights  but  Love  can  know, 

That    crimson    mouth    from    which    sly    Cupid 

borrowed 
The  pattern  for  his  bow,  nor  asked  consent; 

That  smooth,  unruffled  brow  which  has  not  sor 
rowed — 


AND  OTHER  POEMS.  87 

All  these  are  mine;  should  I  not  be  content? 
Yet  are  these  treasures  mine,  or  only  lent  me? 

And  who  shall  claim  them  when  I  pass  away? 
Oh,  jealous  Fate,  to  torture  and  torment  me 

With  thoughts  like  these  in  my  too  fleeting  day! 

For   while   I    gained   the    prize  which    all   were 

seeking, 

And  won  you  with  the  ardor  of  my  quest, 
The  bitter  truth  I  know  without  your  speaking — 

You  only  let  me  love  you  at  the  best. 
E'en  while  I  lean  and  count  my  riches  over, 
And  view   with   gloating   eyes   your   priceless 

charms, 
I    know  somewhere   there   dwells   the   unnamed 

lover 
Who  yet  shall  clasp  you,  willing,  in  his  arms. 

And  while  my  hands  stray  through  your  cluster 
ing  tresses, 

And  while  my  lips  are  pressed  upon  your  own, 
This  unseen  lover  waits  for  such  caresses 

As  my  poor  hungering  clay  has  never  known, 
And  when  some  day,  between  you  and  your  duty 
A  green   grave   lies,  his   love   shall  make  you 

glad, 
And  you   shall   crown   him    with  your  splendid 

beauty — 
Ah,  God!  ah,  God!  'tis  this  way  men  go  mad! 


88  CUSTER, 


I  AM. 

^T  KNOW  not  whence  I  came, 
I  know  not  whither  I  go; 
But  the  fact  stands  clear  that  I  am  here 
In  this  world  of  pleasure  and  woe. 
And  out  of  the  mist  and  murk, 

Another  truth  shines  plain. 
It  is  in  my  power  each  day  and  hour 
To  add  to  its  joy  or  its  pain. 

I  know  that  the  earth  exists, 

It  is  none  of  my  business  why. 
I  cannot  find  out  what  it's  all  about, 

I  would  but  waste  time  to  try. 
My  life  is  a  brief,  brief  thing, 

I  am  here  for  a  little  space. 
And  while  I  stay  I  would  like,  if  I  may, 

To  brighten  and  better  the  place. 

The  trouble,  I  think,  with  us  all 

Is  the  lack  of  a  high  conceit. 
If  each  man  thought  he  was  sent  to  this  spot 

To  make  it  a  bit  more  sweet, 
How  soon  we  could  gladden  the  world, 


AND  OTHER  POEMS.  89 

How  easily  right  all  wrong. 
If  nobody  shirked,  and  each  one  worked 
To  help  his  fellows  along. 

Cease  wondering  why  you  came — 

Stop  looking  for  faults  and  flaws. 
Rise  up  to  day  in  your  pride  and  say, 

"  I  am  part  of  the  First  Great  Cause! 
However  full  the  world 

There  is  room  for  an  earnest  man. 
It  had  need  of  me  or  I  would  not  be, 

I  am  here  to  strengthen  the  plan." 


CUSTER, 


TWO  NIGHTS. 

(Suggested  by  the  lives  of  Napoleon  and  Josephine.) 

I. 

NE  night  was  full  of  rapture  and  delight — 
Of  reunited  arms  and  swooning  kisses, 
And  all  the  unnamed    and    unnumbered 
blisses 
Which  fond  souls  find  in  love  of  love  at  night. 

Heart  beat  with  heart,  and  each  clung  into  each 
With  twining  arms  that  did  but  loose  their  hold 
To  cling  still  closer  ;  and  fond  glances  told 

These  truths  for  which  there  is  no  uttered  speech. 

There  was  sweet  laughter  and  endearing  words, 
Made  broken  by  the  kiss  that  could  not  wait, 
And  cooing  sounds  as  of  dear  little  birds 

That  in  spring-time  love  and  woo  and  mate. 

And  languid  sighs  that  breathed  of  love's  content 
And  all  too  soon  this  night  of  rapture  went. 

II. 

One  night  was  full  of  anguish  and  of  pain, 
Of  nerveless  arms  and  mockery  of  kisses ; 


AND  OTHER  POEMS.  91 

And  those  caresses  where  one  sick  heart  misses 
The  quick  response  the  other  cannot  feign. 

Hands  idly  clasped  and  unclasped,  and  lost  hold, 
And  the  averted  eyes  that  turned  away, 
And  in  whose?  depths  no  love  nor  longing  lay, 

The  saddest  of  all  truths  too  plainly  told. 

There  was  salt  sorrow  and  the  gall  of  tears, 
Some  useless  words  that  ended  in  a  moan, 
And  a  dull  dread  of  long  unending  years 

When  one  must  walk  forever.more  alone. 

Deep  shuddering  sighs  told  more  than  lips  could 
say  ; 

And  the  long  night  of  sorrow  wore  away. 


92  CUSTER, 


PREPARATION. 

E  must  not  force  events,  but  rather  make 
The   heart    soil    ready    for   their   com 
ing,  as 

The  earth  spreads  carpets  for  the  feet 
of  Spring, 

Or,  with  the  strengthening  tonic  of  the  frost, 
Prepares  for  Winter.     Should  a  July  noon 
Burst  suddenly  upon  a  frozen  world 
Small  joy  would  follow,  even  tho'  that  world 
Were  longing  for  the  Summer.     Should  the  sting 
Of  sharp  December  pierce  the  heart  of  June, 
What  death  and  devastation  would  ensue! 
All   things    are    planned.      The    most    majestic 

sphere 

That  whirls  through  space  is  governed  and  con 
trolled 

By  supreme  law,  as  is  the  blade  of  grass 
Which  through  the  bursting   bosom  of  the  earth 
Creeps  up  to  kiss  the  light.     Poor  puny  man 
Alone  doth  strive  and  battle  with  the  Force 
Which  rules  all  lives  and  worlds,  and  he  alone 
Demands  effect  before  producing  cause. 


AND  OTHER  POEMS.  93 

How  vain  the  hope!     We  cannot  harvest  joy 
Until  we  sow  the  seed,  and  God  alone 
Knows  when  that  seed  has  ripened.    Oft  we  stand 
And  watch   the   ground  with  anxious   brooding 

eyes 

Complaining  of  the  slow  unfruitful  yield, 
Not  knowing  that  the  shadow  of  ourselves 
Keeps  off  the  sunlight  and  delays  result. 
Sometimes  our  fierce  impatience  of  desire 
Doth  like  a  sultry  May  force  tender  shoots 
Of  half-formed  pleasures  and  unshaped  events 
To  ripen  prematurely,  and  we  reap 
But  disappointment;  or  we  rot  the  germs 
With  briny  tears  ere  they  have  time  to  grow. 
While  stars  are  born  and  mighty  planets  die 
And  hissing  comets  scorch  the  brow  of  space 
The  Universe  keeps  its  eternal  calm. 
Through  patient  preparation,  year  on  year, 
The  earth  endures  the  travail  of  the  Spring 
And  Winter's  desolation.     So  our  souls 
In  grand  submission  to  a  higher  law 
Should  move  serene  through  all  the  ills  of  life, 
Believing  them  masked  joys. 


94  CUSTER, 


CUSTER. 

BOOK  FIRST. 
I. 

LL  valor  died  not  on  the  plains  of  Troy. 


Awake,  my  Muse,  awake!  be  thine  the  joy 

To  sing  of  deeds  as  dauntless  and    as 
brave 

As  e'er  lent  luster  to  a  warrior's  grave. 
Sing  of  that  noble  soldier,  nobler  man, 
Dear  to  the  heart  of  each  American. 
Sound  forth  his  praise  from  sea  to  listening  sea — 
Greece  her    Achilles  claimed,  immortal  Custer, 
we. 

II. 

Intrepid  are  earth's  heroes  now  as  when 

The  gods  came  down  to  measure  strength  with 

men. 

Let  danger  threaten  or  let  duty  call, 
And  self  surrenders  to  the  needs  of  all; 
Incurs  vast  perils,  or,  to  save  those  dear, 
Embraces  death  without  one  sigh  or  tear. 
Life's  martyrs  still  the  endless  drama  play 
Though    no    great    Homer  lives  to  chant  their 

worth  to-day. 


AND  OTHER  POEMS.  95 

III. 

And  if  he  chanted,  who  would  list  his  songs, 
So  hurried  now  the  world's  gold-seeking  throngs? 
And  yet  shall  silence  mantle  mighty  deeds? 
Awake,  dear  Muse,  and  sing  though  no  ear  heeds! 
Extol  the  triumphs,  and  bemoan  the  end 
Of  that  true  hero,  lover,  son  and  friend 
Whose  faithful  heart  in  his  last  choice  was  shown— 
Death  with  the  comrades    dear,   refusing   flight 
alone. 

IV. 

He  who  was  born  for  battle  and  for  strife 
Like  some  caged  eagle  frets  in  peaceful  life; 
So  Custer  fretted  when  detained  afar 
From  scenes  of  stirring  action  and  of  war. 
And  as  the  captive  eagle  in  delight, 
When  freedom  offers,  plumes  himself  for  flight 
And  soars  away  to  thunder  clouds  on  high, 
With  palpitating  wings  and  wild  exultant  cry, 

V. 

So  lion-hearted  Custer  sprang  to  arms,  * 
And  gloried  in  the  conflict's  loud  alarms. 
But  one  dark  shadow  marred  his  bounding  joy; 
And  then  the  soldier  vanished,  and  the  boy, 
The  tender  son,  clung  close,  with  sobbing  breath, 
To  her  from  whom  each  parting  was  new  death; 
That  mother  who  like  goddesses  of  old, 
Gave  to  the  mighty  Mars,  three  warriors  brave 
and  bold, 


96  CUSTER, 

VI. 

Yet  who,  unlike  those  martial  dames  of  yore, 
Grew  pale  and  shuddered  at  the  sight  of  gore. 
A  fragile  being,  born  to  grace  the  hearth, 
Untroubled  by  the  conflicts  of  the  earth. 
Some  gentle  dove    who-  reared  'young    eaglets, 

might, 

In  watching  those  bold  birdlings  take  their  flight, 
Feel  what  that  mother  felt  who  saw  her  sons 
Rush  from  her  loving  arms,  to  face  death-dealing 

guns. 

VII. 

But  ere  thy  lyre  is  strung  to  martial  strains 
Of  wars  which  sent  our  hero  o'er  the  plains, 
To  add  the  cypress  to  his  laureled  brow, 
Be  brave,  my  Muse,  and  darker  truths  avow. 
Let  Justice  ask  a  preface  to  thy  songs, 
Before  the  Indian's  crimes  declare  his  wrongs; 
Before  effects,  wherein  all  horrors  blend, 
Declare  the  shameful  cause,  precursor  of  the  end 

VIII. 

When  first  this  soil  the  great  Columbus  trod, 
He  was  less  like  the  image  of  his  God 
Than  those  ingenuous  souls,  unspoiled  by  art, 
Who  lived  so  near  to  Mother  Nature's  heart; 
Those  simple  children  of  the  wood  and  wave, 
As  frank  as  trusting,  and  as  true  as  brave; 


AND  OTHER  POEMS.  97 

Savage  they  were,  when  on  some  hostile  raid 
(For  where  is  he  so  high,  whom  war  does  not 
degrade?). 

IX. 

But  dark  deceit  and  falsehood's  shameless  shame 
They  had  not  learned,  until  the  white  man  came. 
He  taught  them,  too,  the  lurking  devil's  joy 
In  liquid  lies,  that  lure  but  to  destroy. 
With  wily  words,  as  false  as  they  were  sweet, 
He  spread  his  snares  for  unsuspecting  feet; 
Paid  truth  with  guile,  and  trampled  in  the  dust 
Their  gentle  childlike  faith  and  unaffected  trust. 

X. 

And  for  the  sport  of  idle  kings  and  knaves 
Of  Nature's  greater  noblemen,  made  slaves. 
Alas,  the  hour,  when  the  wronged   Indian  knows 
His  seeming  benefactors  are  but  foes. 
His  kinsmen  kidnapped  and  his  lands  possessed, 
The  demon  woke  in  that  untutored  breast. 
Four  hundred  years  have  rolled  upon  their  way — 
The  ruthless  demon  rules  the  red  man  to  this  day. 

XI. 

If,  in  the  morning  of  success,  that  grand 
Invincible  discoverer  of  our  land 
Had  made  no  lodge  or  wigwam  desolate 
To  carry  trophies  to  the  proud  and  great; 


98  CUSTER, 

If  on  our  history's  page  there  were  no  blot 
Left  by  the  cruel  rapine  of  Cabot, 
Of  Verrazin,  and  Hudson,  dare  we  claim 
The  Indian  of  the   plains,  to-day  had  been  the 
same? 

XII. 

For  in  this  brief  existence,  not  alone 

Do  our  lives  gather  what  our  hands  have  sown, 

But  we  reap,  too,  what  others  long  ago 

Sowed,  careless  of  the   harvests  that  might  grow. 

Thus  hour  by  hour  the  humblest  human  souls 

Inscribe  in  cipher  on  unending  scrolls, 

The  history  of  nations  yet  to  be; 

Incite  fierce  bloody  wars,  to  rage  from  sea  to  sea, 

XIII. 

Or  pave  the  way  to  peace.     There  is  no  past, 
So  deathless  are  events — results  so  vast. 
And  he  who  strives  to  make  one  act  or  hour 
Stand  separate  and  alone,  needs  first  the.  power 
To  look  upon  the  breaking  wave  and  say, 
"  These  drops  were  bosomed  by  a  cloud  to-day, 
And  those  from  far  mid-ocean's  crest  were  sent." 
So  future,  present,  past,  in  one  wide  sea  are  blent. 


AND  OTHER  POEMS.  99 


BOOK    SECOND. 
I. 

Oh,  for  the  power  to  call  to  aid,  of  mine 
Own  humble  Muse,  the  famed  and  sacred  nine. 
Then  might  she  fitly  sing,  and  only  then, 
Of  those  intrepid  and  unflinching  men 
Who  knew  no  homes  save  ever  moving  tents, 
And  who  'twixt  fierce  unfriendly  elements 
And  wild  barbarians  warred.     Yet  unfraid, 
Since    love   impels   thy   strains,    sing,    sing,    my 
modest  maid. 

II. 

Relate  how  Custer  in  midwinter  sought 

Far  Washita's  cold  shores;  tell  why  he  fought 

With  savage  nomads  fortressed  in  deep  snows. 

Woman,  thou  source  of  half  the  sad  world's  woes 

And  all  its  joys,  what  sanguinary  strife 

Has  vexed  the  earth  and  made  contention  rife 

Because  of  thee!   For,  hidden  in  man's  heart, 

Ay,  in  his  very  soul,  of  his  true  self  a  part, 

III. 

The  natural  impulse  and  the  wish  belongs 
To  win  thy  favor  and  redress  thy  wrongs. 
Alas!  for  woman,  and  for  man,  alas! 
If  that  dread  hour  should  ever  come  to  pass, 


ioo  CUSTER, 

When,  through  her  new-born  passion  for  control, 
She  drives  that  beauteous  impulse  from  his  soul. 
What  were  her  vaunted  independence  worth 
If  to  obtain  she  sells  her  sweetest  rights  of  birth? 

IV. 

God  formed  fair  woman  for  her  true  estate — 
Man's  tender  comrade,  and  his  equal  mate, 
Not  his  competitor  in  toil  and  trade. 
While  coarser  man,  with  greater  strength  was  made 
To  fight  her  battles  and  her  rights  protect. 
Ay!  to  protect  the  rights  of  earth's  elect 
(The  virgin  maiden  and  the  spotless  wife) 
From  immemorial  time  has  man  laid  down  his  life. 

V. 

And  now  brave  Custer's  valiant  army  pressed 

Across  the  dangerous  desert  of  the  West, 

To  rescue  fair  white  captives  from  the  hands 

Of  brutal  Cheyenne  and  Comanche  bands, 

On  Washita's  bleak  banks.     Nine  hundred  strong 

It  moved  its  slow  determined  way  along, 

Past  frontier  homes  left  dark  and  desolate 

By  the  wild  Indians'  fierce  and  unrelenting  hate; 

VI. 
Past  forts  where  ranchmen,  strong  of  heart  and 

bold, 
Wept  now  like  orphaned  children  as  they  told, 


AND  OTHER  POEMS.  101 

With   quivering    muscles     and    with    anguished 

breath, 
Of  captured  wives,  whose  fate  v/as  worse  than 

death; 

Past  naked  bodies  whose  disfiguring  wounds 
Spoke  of  the  hellish  hate  of  human  hounds; 
Past  bleaching  skeleton  and  rifled  grave, 
On  pressed  th'  avenging  host,  to  rescue  an<J  to 

save. 

VII. 

Uncertain  Nature,  like  a  fickle  friend, 

(Worse  than  the  foe  on  whom  we  may  depend) 

Turned  on  these  dauntless  souls  a  brow  of  wrath 

And  hurled  her  icy  jav'lins  in  their  path. 

With    treacherous   quicksands,  and  with  storms 

that  blight, 
Entrapped   their    footsteps    and    confused  their^ 

sight. 

"  Yet  on,"  urged  Custer,  "  on  at  any  cost, 
No  hour  is  there  to  waste,  no  moment  to  be  lost." 

VIII. 

Determined,  silent,  on  they  rode,  and  on, 
Like  fabled  Centaurs,  men  and  steeds  seemed  one. 
No  bugle  echoed  and  no  voice  spoke  near, 
Lest  on  some  lurking  Indian's  list'ning  ear 
The  sound  might  fall.    Through  swift  descending 
snow 


102  CUSTER, 

The  stealthy  guides  crept,  tracing  out  the  foe; 
No  fire  was  lighted,  and  no  halt  was  made 
From  haggard  gray-lipped  dawn  till  night  lent 
friendly  shade. 

IX. 

Then,  by  the  shelt'ring  river's  bank  at  last, 
The  weary  warriors  paused  for  their  repast. 
A  couch  of  ice  and  falling  shows  for  spread 
Made  many  a  suffering  soldier's  chilling  bed. 
They  slept  to  dream  of  glory  and  delight, 
While  the  pale  fingers  of  the  pitying  night 
Wove  ghostly  winding  sheets  for   that   doomed 

score 
Who,  ere  another  eve,  should  sleep  to  wake  no 

more. 

X. 

B*t  those  who  slept  not,  saw  with  startled  eyes 
Far  off,  athwart  dim  unprotecting  skies, 
Ascending  slowly  with  majestic  grace, 
A  lustrous  rocket,  rising  out  of  space. 
"  Behold  the  signal  of  the  foe,"  cried  one, 
The  field  is  lost  before  the  strife's  begun. 
Yet  no  !  for  see!  yon  rays  spread  near  and  far; 
It  is  the  day's  first  smile,  the  radiant  morning  star. 

XL 

The  long  hours  counting  till  the  daylight  broke, 
In  whispered  words  tjie  restless  warriors  spoke. 


AND  OTHER  POEMS.  103 

They  talked  of  battles,  but  they  thought  of  home 
(For  hearts  are  faithful  though  the  feet  may  roam). 
Brave  Hamilton,  all  eager  for  the  strife, 
Mused  o'er  that  two-fold  mystery — death  and  life; 
"And  when  I  die,"  quoth  he,   '  mine  be  the  part 
To  fall  upon  the  field,  a  bullet  in  my  heart." 

XII. 

At  break  of  dawn  the  scouts  crept  in  to  say 
The  foe  was  camped  a  rifle  shot  away. 
The  baying  of  a  dog,  an  infant's  cry 
Pierced  through  the  air;  sleep  fled  from  every  eye. 
To  horse  !    to  arms  !    the  dead  demand  the  dead  ! 
Let  the  grand  charge  upon  the  lodge  be  led  ! 
Let  the  Mosaic  law,  life  for  a  life 
Pay  the  long  standing  debt  of  blood.    War  to  the 
knife  ! 

XIII. 

So  spake  each  heart  in  that  unholy  rage 

Which   fires   the  brain,  when   war  the  thoughts 

engage. 

War,  hideous  war,  appealing  to  the  worst 
In  complex  man,  and  waking  that  wild  thirst 
For  human  blood  which  blood  alone  can  slake. 
Yet  for  their  country's  safety,  and  the  sake 
Of  tortured  captives  moaning  in  alarm 
The  Indian  must  be  made  to  fear  the  law's  strong 

arm. 


104  CUSTER, 

XIV. 

A  noble  vengeance  burned  in  Custer's  breast, 
But,  as  he  led  his  army  to  the  crest, 
Above  the  wigwams,  ready  for  the  charge 
He  felt  the  heart  within  him,  swelling  large 
With  human  pity,  as  an  infant's  wail 
Shrilled  once  again  above  the  wintry  gale. 
Then  hosts  of  murdered  children  seemed  to  rise; 
And  shame  his  halting  thought  with  sad  accusing 
eyes, 

XV. 

And  urge  him  on  to  action.     Stern  of  brow 
The  just  avenger,  and  the  General  now, 
He  gives  the  silent  signal  to  the  band 
Which,  all  impatient,  waits  for  his  command. 
Cold  lips  to  colder  metal  press;  the  air 
Echoes  those  merry  strains  which  mean  despair 
For  sleeping  chieftain  and  for  toiling  squaw, 
But  joy  to  those  stern  hearts  which  glory  in  the 
law 

XVI. 

Of  murder  paying  murder's  awful  debt. 

And  now  four  squadrons  in  one  charge  are  met. 

From  east  and  west,  from  north  and  south  they 

come, 

At  call  of  bugle  and  at  roll  of  drum. 
Their  rifles  rain  hot  hail  upon  the  foe, 


AND  OTHER  POEMS.  105 

Who  flee  from  danger  in  death's  jaws  to  go. 
The  Indians  fight  like  maddened  bulls  at  bay, 
And  dying  shriek  and  groan,  wound  the  young 
ear  of  day. 

XVII. 

A  pallid  captive  and  a  white-browed  boy 
Add  to  the  tumult  piercing  cries  of  joy, 
As  forth  they  fly,  with  high  hope  animate. 
A  hideous  squaw  pursues  them  with  her  hate; 
Her  knife    descends  with    sickening  force   and 

sound; 

Their  bloody  entrails  stain  the  snow-clad  ground. 
She  shouts  with  glee,  then  yells  with  rage  and 

falls 

Dead  by  her  victims'  side,  pierced  by  avenging 
balls. 

XVIII. 

Now  war  runs  riot,  carnage  reigns  supreme. 

All  thoughts  of  mercy  fade  from  Custer's  scheme. 

Inhuman  methods  for  inhuman  foes, 

Who  feed  on  horrors  and  exult  in  woes. 

To  conquer  and  subdue  alone  remains 

In  dealing  with  the  red  man  on  the  plains. 

The  breast  that  knows  no  conscience  yields  to 

fear, 
Strike  !   let  the  Indian  meet  his  master  now  and 

here. 


io6  OUSTER, 

XIX. 

With    thoughts    like    these    was   Custer's   mind 

engaged. 

The  gentlest  are  the  sternest  when  enraged. 
All  felt  the  swift  contagion  of  his  ire, 
For  he  was  one  who  could  arouse  and  fire 
The  coldest  heart,  so  ardent  was  his  own. 
His  fearless  eye,  his  calm  intrepid  tone, 
Bespoke  the  leader,  strong  with  conscious  power, 
Whom  following  friends  will  bless,  while  foes  will 

curse  and  cower. 


XX. 

Again  they  charge!  and  now  among  the  killed 
Lies  Hamilton,  his  wish  so  soon  fulfilled, 
Brave  Elliott  pursues  across  the  field 
The  flying  foe,  his  own  young  life  to  yield. 
But  like  the  leaves  in  some  autumnal  gale 
The  red  men  fall  in  Washita's  wild  vale. 
Each  painted  face  and  black  befeathered  head 
Still    more    repulsive    seems   with  death's  grim 
pallor  wed. 

XXI. 

New  forces  gather  on  surrounding  knolls, 
And  fierce  and  fiercer  war's  red  river  rolls. 
With  bright-hued  pennants  flying  from  each  lance 
The  gayly  costumed  Kiowas  advance. 


AND  OTHER  POEMS.  107 

And  bold  Comanches  (Bedouins  of  the  land) 
Infuse  fresh  spirit  in  the  Cheyenne  band. 
While  from  the  ambush  of  some  dark  ravine 
Flash    arrows    aimed    by    hands,    unerring  and 
unseen. 

XXIII. 

The  hours  advance;  the  storm  clouds  roll  away; 
Still  furious  and  more  furious  grows  the  fray. 
The  yellow  sun  makes  ghastlier  still  the  sight 
Of  painted  corpses,  staring  in  its  light. 
No  longer  slaves,  but  comrades  of  their  griefs, 
The  squaws  augment  the  forces  of  their  chiefs. 
They  chant  weird  dirges  in  a  minor  key, 
While  from  the  narrow  door  o-f  wigwam  and  tepee 

XXIII. 

Cold  glittering  eyes  above  cold  glittering  steel 
Their  deadly  purpose  and  their  hate  reveal. 
The  click  of  pistols  and  the  crack  of  guns 
Proclaim  war's  daughters  dangerous  as  her  sons. 
She  who  would  wield  the  soldier's  sword  and  lance 
Must  be  prepared  to  take  the  soldier's  chance. 
She  who  would  shoot  must  serve  as  target,  too; 
The  battle-frenzied  men,  infuriate  now  pursue. 

XXIV. 

And  blood  of  warrior,  woman  and  papoose, 
Flow  free  as  waters  when  some  dam  breaks  loose; 


1 08  CUSTER, 

Consuming  fire,  the  wanton  friend  of  war 
(Whom  allies  worship  and  whom  foes  abhor) 
Now  trails   her   crimson   garments   through    the 

street, 

And  ruin  marks  the  passing  of  her  feet. 
Full  three-score  lodges  smoke  upon  the  plain, 
And  all    the  vale    is  strewn,  with   bodies  of  the 

slain. 

XXV. 

And  those  who  are  not  numbered  with  the  dead 

Before  all-conquering  Custer  now  are  led. 

To  soothe  their  woes,  and  calm  their  fears  he  seeks; 

An  Osage  guide  interprets  while  he  speaks. 

The  vanquished  captives,  humbled,    cowed    and 

spent 

Read  in  the  victor's  eye  his  kind  intent. 
The  modern  victor  is  as  kind  as  brave; 
His  captive  is  his  guest,  not  his  insulted  slave. 

XXVI. 

Mahwissa,  sister  of  the  slaughtered  chief 
Of  all  the  Cheyennes,  listens;  and  her  grief 
Yields  now  to  hope;  and  o'er  her  withered  face 
There  flits  the  stealthy  cunning  of  her  race. 
Then  forth  she  steps,  and  thus  begins  to  speak: 
"  To  aid  the  fallen  and  support  the  weak 
Is  man's  true  province;  and  to  ease  the  pain 
Of  those  o'er  whom  it  is  his  purpose  now  to  reign. 


AND  OTHER  POEMS.  109 

XXVII. 

"  Let  the  strong  chief  unite  with  theirs  his  life, 
And  take  this  black-eyed  maiden  for  a  wife." 
Then,  moving  with  an  air  of  proud  command, 
She  leads  a  dusky  damsel  by  the  hand, 
And  places  her  at  wondering  Ouster's  side, 
Invoking  choicest  blessings  on  the  bride 
And  all  unwilling  groom,  who  thus  replies. 
11  Fair  is  the  Indian  maid,  with  bright  bewildering 
eyes, 

XXVIII. 

"But  fairer  still  is  one  who,  year  on  year, 

Has  borne   man's  burdens,  conquered   woman's 

fear; 

And  at  my  side  rode  mile  on  weary  mile,  * 
And  faced  all  deaths,  all  dangers,  with  a  smile, 
Wise  as  Minerva,  as  Diana  brave, 
Is  she  whom  generous  gods  in  kindness  gave 
To  share  the  hardships  of  my  wandering  life, 
Companion,  comrade,  friend,  my  loved  and  loyal 

wife.    ' 

XXIX. 

"The  white  chief  weds  but  one.     Take  back  thy 

maid." 

He  ceased,  and  o'er  Mahwissa's  face  a  shade 
Of  mingled  scorn  and  pity  and  surprise 
Sweeps  as  she  slow  retreats,  and  thus  replies: 


i  io  CUSTER, 

"  Rich  is  the  pale-faced  chief  in  battle  fame, 
But  poor  is  he  who  but  one  wife  may  claim. 
Wives  are  the  red-skinned  heroes'  rightful  spoil; 
In  war  they  prove  his  strength,  in  times  of  peace 
they  toil." 

XXX. 

But  hark!     The  bugle  echoes  o'er  the  plains 
And  sounds  again  those  merry  Celtic  strains 
Which  oft  have  called  light  feet  to  lilting  dance, 
But  now  they  mean  the  order  to  advance. 
Along  the  river's  bank,  beyond  the  hill 
Two  thousand  foemen  lodge,  unconquered  still. 
Ere  falls  night's  curtain  on  this  bloody  play, 
The  army  must  proceed,  with  feint  of  further  fray. 

XXXI. 

The  weary  warriors  mount  their  foam-flecked 
steeds, 

With  flags  unfurled  the  dauntless  host  proceeds. 

What  though  the  foe  outnumbers  two  to  one? 

Boldness  achieves  what  strength  oft  leaves  un 
done  ; 

A  daring  mein  will  cause  brute  force  to  cower, 

And  courage  is  the  secret  source  of  power. 

As  Custer's  column  wheels  upon  their  sight 

The  frightened  red  men  yield  the  untried  field  by 
flight. 


AND  OTHER  POEMS.  in 

XXXII. 

Yet  when  these  conquering  heroes  sink  to  rest, 
Dissatisfaction  gnaws  the  leader's  breast, 
For  far  away  across  vast  seas  of  snows 
Held  prisoners  still  by  hostile  Arapahoes 
And  Cheyennes  unsubdued,  two  captives  wait. 
On  God  and  Custer  hangs  their  future  fate. 
May  the  Great  Spirit  nerve  the  mortal's  arm 
To  rescue  suffering  souls  from  worse  than  death's 
alarm. 

XXXIII. 

But  ere  they  seek  to  rescue  the  oppressed, 
The  valiant  dead,  in  state,  are  laid  to  rest.   , 
Mourned  Hamilton,  the  faithful  and  the  brave, 
Nine  hundred  comrades  follow  to  the  grave  ; 
And  close  behind  the  banner-hidden  corse 
All  draped  in  black,  walks  mournfully-his  horse  ; 
While  tears  of  sound  drip  through  the  sunlit  day. 
A  soldier  may  not  weep,  but  drums  and  bugles 
may. 

XXXIV. 

Now,  Muse,  recount,  how  after  long  delays 

And  dangerous  marches  through  untrodden  ways, 

Where  cold  and  hunger  on  each  hour  attend, 

At  last  the  army  gains  the  journey's  end. 

An  Indian  village  bursts  upon  the  eye; 

Two  hundred  lodges,  sleep-encompassed  lie, 


H2  CUSTER, 

There   captives    moan   their    anguished   prayers 

through  tears, 
While  in  the  silent  dawn  the  armied  answer  nears. 

XXXV. 

To  snatch  two  fragile  victims  from  the  foe 
Nine  hundred  men  have  traversed  leagues  of  snow. 
Each  woe  they  suffered  in  a  hostile  land 
The  flame  of  vengeance  in  their  bosoms  fanned. 
They  thirst  for  slaughter,  and  the  signal  wait 
To  wrest  the  captives  from  their  horrid  fate. 
Each  warrior's  hand  upon  his  rifle  falls, 
Each  savage  soldier's  heart  for  awful  bloodshed 
calls. 

XXXVI. 

And  one,  in  years  a  youth,  in  woe  a  man, 
Sad  Brewster,  scarred  by  sorrow's  blighting  ban, 
Looks,  panting,  where  his  captive  sister  sleeps, 
And  o'er  his  face  the  shade  of  murder  creeps. 
His  nostrils  quiver  like  a  hungry  beast 
Who  scents  anear  the  bloody  carnal  feast. 
He  longs  to  leap  down  in  that  slumbering  vale 
And  leave  no  foe  alive  to  tell  the  awful  tale. 

XXXVII. 

Not  so,  calm  Custer.     Sick  of  gory  strife, 
He  hopes  for  rescue  with  no  loss  of  life; 
And  plans  that  bloodless  battle  of  the  plains 


AND  OTHER  POEMS.  113 

Where  reasoning  mind  outwits  mere  savage  brains. 
The  sullen  soldiers  follow  where  he  leads; 
No  gun  is  emptied,  and  no  foeman  bleeds. 
Fierce  for  the  fight  and  eager  for  the  fray 
.They  look  upon  their  Chief  in  undisguised  dismay. 

XXXVIII. 

He  hears  the  murmur  of  their  discontent, 

But  sneers  can  never  change  a  strong  mind's  bent. 

He  knows  his  purpose  and  he  does  not  swerve, 

And  with  a  quiet  mien  and  steady  nerve 

He  meets  dark  looks  where'er  his  steps  may  go, 

And  silence  that  is  bruising  as  a  blow, 

Where  late  were  smiles  and  words  of  ardent  praise. 

So  pass  the  lagging  weeks  of  wearying  delays. 

XXXIX. 

Inaction  is  not  always  what  it  seems, 
And  Custer's  mind  with  plan  and  project  teems. 
Fixed  in  his  peaceful  purpose  he  abides 
With  none  takes  counsel  and  in  none  confides; 
But  slowly  weaves  about  the  foe  a  net 
Which  leaves  them  wholly  at  his  mercy,  yet 
lie  strikes  no  fateful  blow;  he  takes  no  life, 
And  holds  in  check  his  men,  who  pant  for  bloody 
strife. 

XL. 

Intrepid  warrior  and  skilled  diplomate, 

In  his  strong  hands  he  holds  the  red  man's   fate. 


ii4  CUSTER, 

The  craftiest  plot  he  checks  with  counterplot, 
Till  tribe  by  tribe  the  tricky  foe  is  brought 
To  fear  his  vengeance  and  to  know  his  power 
As  man's  fixed  gaze  will  make  a  wild  beast  cower, 
So  these  crude  souls  feel  that  unflinching  will 
Which  draws   them  by  its   force,  yet    does   not 
deign  to  kill. 

XLI. 

And  one  by  one  the  hostile  Indians  send 
Their  chiefs  to  seek  a  peaceful  treaty's  end. 
Great  councils  follow;  skill  with  cunning  copes 
And  conquers  it;  and  Custer  sees  his  hopes 
So  long  delayed,  like  stars  storm  hidden,  rise 
To  radiate  with  splendor  all  his  skies. 
The  stubborn  Cheyennes,  cowed  at  last  by  fear, 
Leading    the   captive    pair,  o'er    spring-touched 
hills  appear. 

XLII. 

With  breath  suspended,  now  the  whole  command 
Waits  the  approach  of  that  equestrian  band. 
Nearer  it  comes,  still  nearer,  then  a  cry, 
Half  sob,  half   shriek,  goes  piercing  God's  blue 

sky, 

And  Brewster,  like  a  nimble-footed  doe, 
Or  like  an  arrow  hurrying  from  a  bow, 
Shoots  swiftly  through  the  intervening  space 
And  that  lost  sister  clasps,  in  sorrowing  love's 

embrace. 


AND  OTHER  POEMS.  115 

XLIII. 

And  men  who  leaned  o'er  Hamilton's  rude  bier 
And  saw  his  dead  dear  face  without  a  tear, 
Strong  souls  who  early  learned  the  manly  art 
Of  keeping  from  the  eye  what's  in  the  heart, 
Soldiers  who  look  unmoved  on  death's  pale  brow, 
Avert  their  eyes,  to  hide  their  moisture  now. 
The  briny  flood  forced  back  from  shores  of  woe, 
Needs  but  to  touch  the  strands  of  joy  to  overflow. 

XLIV. 

About  the  captives  welcoming  warriors  crowd, 
All  eyes  are  wet,  and  Brewster  sobs  aloud. 
Alas,  the  ravage  wrought  by  toil  and  woe 
On  faces  that  were  fair  twelve  moons  ago. 
Bronzed  by  exposure  to  the  heat  and  cold, 
Still  young  in  years,  yet  prematurely  old, 
By  insults  humbled  and  by  labor  worn, 
They  stand  in  youth's  bright  hour,  of  all  youth's 
graces  shorn. 

XLV. 

A  scanty  garment  rudely  made  of  sacks 

Hangs  from    their   loins;   bright  blankets   drapt 

their  backs; 

About  their  necks  are  twisted  tangled  strings 
Of  gaudy  beads,  while  tinkling  wire  and  rings 
Of  yellow  brass  on  wrists  and  fingers  glow. 
Thus,  to  assuage  the  anger  of  the  foe 


u6  CUSTER, 

The  cunning  Indians  decked  the  captive  pair 
Who  in  one  year  have  known  a  lifetime  of  despair. 

XLVI. 

But  love  can  resurrect  from  sorrow's  tomb 
The  vanished  beauty  and  the  faded  bloom, 
As  sunlight  lifts  the  bruised  flower  from  the  sod, 
Can  lift  crushed  hearts  to  hope,  for  love  is  God. 
Already  now  in  freedom's  glad  release 
The  hunted  look  of  fear  gives  place  to  peace, 
And  in  their  eyes  at  thought  of  home  appears 
That  rainbow  light  of  joy  which  brightest  shines 
through  tears. 

XLVII. 

About  the  leader  thick  the  warriors  crowd; 
Late  loud  in  censure,  now  in  praises  loud, 
They  laud  the  tactics,  and  the  skill  extol 
Which  gained  a  bloodless  yet  a  glorious  goal. 
Alone  and  lonely  in  the  path  of  right 
Full    many   a    brave    soul    walks.     When    gods 

requite 

And  crown  his  actions  as  their  worth  demands, 
Among  admiring  throngs  the  hero  always  stands. 

*  ***** 

XLVIII. 

Back  to  the  East  the  valorous  squadrons  sweep; 
The  earth,  arousing  from  her  long,  cold  sleep, 
Throws  from  her  breast  the  coverlet  of  snow, 


AND  OTHER  POEMS.  117 

Revealing  Spring's  soft  charms  which  lie  below. 
Suppressed  emotions  in  each  heart  arise, 
The  wooer  wakens  and  the  warrior  dies. 
The  bird  of  prey  is  vanquished  by  the  dove, 
And   thoughts  of  bloody   strife    give    place    to 
thoughts  of  love. 

XLIX. 

The  mighty  plains,  devoid  of  whispering  trees, 

Guard  well  the  secrets  of  departed  seas. 

Where  once  great  tides  swept  by  with  ebb  and 

flow 

The  scorching  sun  looks  down  in  tearless  woe*. 
And  fierce  tornadoes  in  ungoverned  pain 
Mourn  still  the  loss  of  that  mysterious  main. 
Across  this  ocean  bed  the  soldiers  fly — 
Home  is  the  gleaming  goal  that  lures  each  eager 

eye. 

L. 

Like  some  elixir  which  the  gods  prepare, 
They  drink  the  viewless  tonic  of  the  air, 
Sweet  with  the  breath  of  startled  antelopes 
Which  speed  before  them  over  swelling  slopes. 
Now  like  a  serpent  writhing  o'er  the  moor, 
The  column  curves  and  makes  a  slight  detour, 
As  Custer  leads  a  thousand  men  away 
To  save  aground  bird's  nest  which  in  the  footpath 
lay. 


ii8  OUSTER, 

LI. 

Mile  following  mile,  against  the  leaning  skies 
Far  off  they  see  a  dull  dark  cloud  arise. 
The  hunter's  instinct  in  each  heart  is  stirred, 
Beholding  there  in  one  stupendous  herd 
A  hundred  thousand  buffaloes.     Oh  great 
Unwieldy  proof  of  Nature's  cruder  state, 
Rough  remnant  of  a  prehistoric  day, 
Thou,  with  the  red  man,  too,  must  shortly  pass 
away. 

LII. 

Upon  those  spreading  plains  is  there  not  room 
For  man  and  bison,  that  he  seals  its  doom? 
What  pleasure  lies  and  what  seductive  charm 
In  slaying  with  no  purpose  but  to  harm? 
Alas,  that  man,  unable  to  create, 
Should  thirst  forever  to  exterminate, 
And  in  destruction  find  his  fiercest  joy. 
The  gods  alone  create,  gods  only  should  destroy. 

LIII. 

The  flying  hosts  a  straggling  bull  pursue; 

Unerring  aim,  the  skillful  Custer  drew. 

The  wounded  beast  turns  madly  in  despair 

And  man  and  horse  are  lifted  high  in  air. 

The  conscious  steed  needs  not  the  guiding  rein; 

Back  with  a  bound  and  one  quick  cry  of  pain 


AND  OTHER  POEMS.  119 

He  springs,  and  halts,  well  knowing  where  must 

fall 
In  that  protected  frame,  the  sure   death  dealing 

ball. 

LIV. 

With  minds  intent  upon  the  morrow's  feast, 
The  men  surround  the  carcass  of  the  beast. 
Rolled  on  his  back,  he  lies  with  lolling  tongue, 
Soon  to  the  saddle  savory  steaks  are  hung. 
And  from  his  mighty  head,  great  tufts  of  hair 
Are  cut  as  trophies  for  some  lady  fair. 
To  vultures  then  they  leave  the  torn  remains 
Of  what  an  hour  ago  was  monarch  of  the  plains. 

LV. 

Far  off,  two  bulls  in  jealous  war  engage, 
Their  blood-shot  eye  balls  roll  in  furious  rage; 
With  maddened   hoofs  they  mutilate  the  ground 
And  loud  their  angry  bellowings  resound; 
With  shaggy  heads  bent  low  they  plunge  and  roar, 
Till  both  broad  bellies  drip  with  purple  gore. 
Meanwhile,  the  heifer,  whom  the  twain  desire, 
Stands  browsing  near  the  pair,  indifferent  to  their 
ire. 

LVI. 

At  last  she  lifts  her  lazy  head  and  heeds 

The  clattering  hoofs  of  swift  advancing  steeds. 

Off  to  the  herd  with  cumb'rous  gait  she  runs 


120  CUSTER, 

And  leaves  the  bulls  to  face  the  threatening  guns. 
No  more  for  them  the  free  life  of  the  plains, 
Its  mating  pleasures  and  its  warring  pains. 
Their  quivering  flesh  shall  feed  unnumbered  foes, 
Their  tufted  tails  adorn  the  soldiers'  saddle  bows. 

LVII. 

Now  into  camp  the  conquering  hosts  advance; 
On  burnished  arms  the  brilliant  sunbeams  glance. 
Brave  Custer  leads,  blonde  as  the  gods  of  old; 
Back  from  his  brow  blow  clustering  locks  of  gold, 
And,  like  a  jewel  in  a  brook,  there  lies, 
Far  in  the  depths  of  his  blue  guarded  eyes, 
The  thought  of  one  whose  smiling  lips  upcurled, 
Mean  more  of  joy  to  him  than  plaudits  of  the 
world. 

LVIII. 

The  troops  in  columns  of  platoons  appear 
'Close  to  the  leader  following.     Ah,  here 
The  poetry  of  war  is  fully  seen, 
Its  prose  forgotten;  as  against  the  green 
Of  Mother  Nature,  uniformed  in  blue, 
The  soldiers  pass  for  Sheridan's  review. 
The  motion-music  of  the  moving  throng, 
Is  like  a  silent  tune,  set  to  a  wordless  song. 

LIX. 

The  guides  and  trailers,  weird  in  war's  array, 
Precede  the  troops  along  the  grassy  way. 


AND  OTHER  POEMS.  121 

They  chant  wild  songs,  and  with  loud  noise  and 

stress, 

In  savage  manner  savage  joy  express. 
The  Indian  captives,  blanketed  in  red, 
On  ponies  mounted,  by  the  scouts  are  led. 
Like  sumach  bushes,  etched  on  evening  skies, 
Against  the  blue-clad  troops,  this  patch  of  color 

lies. 

LX. 

*» 

High  o'er  the  scene  vast  music  billows  bound, 
And  all  the  air  is  liquid  with  the  sound 
Of  those  invisible  compelling  waves. 
Perchance  they  reach  the  low  and  lonely  graves 
Where  sleep  brave  Elliott  and  Hamilton, 
And  whisper  there  the  tale  of  victory  won; 
Or  do  the  souls  of  soldiers  tried  and  true 
Comeat  the  bugle  call,  and  march  in  grand  review? 

LXI. 

The  pleased  Commander  watches  in  surprise 
This  splendid  pageant  §urge  before  his  eyes. 
Not  in  those  mighty  battle  days  of  old 
Did  scenes  like  this  upon  his  sight  unfold. 
But  now  it  passes.     Drums  and  bugles  cease 
To  dash  war  billows  on  the  shores  of  Peace. 
The  victors  smile  on  fair  broad  bosomed  Sleep 
While  in  her  soothing  arms,  the  vanquished  cease 
to  weep. 


122  CUSTER, 


*BOOK    THIRD. 

*There  is  an  interval  of  eight  years  between  Books  Second 
and  Third. 

I. 

As  in  the  long  dead  days  marauding  hosts 
Of  Indians  came  from  far  Siberian  coasts, 
And  drove  the  peaceful  Aztecs  from  their  grounds, 
Despoiled  their   homes    (but   left   their  tell-tale 

mounds), 

So  has  the  white  man  with  the  Indians  done. 
Now  with  their  backs  against  the  setting  sun 
The  remnants  of  a  dying  nation  stand 
And  view  the  lost   domain,  once   their  beloved 

land. 

II. 

Upon  the  vast  Atlantic's  leagues  of  shore 

The  happy  red  man's  tent  is  seen  no  more; 

And   from   the   deep  blue    lakes   which     mirror 

heaven 

His  bounding  bark  canoe  was  long  since  driven. 
The  mighty  woods,  those  temples  where  his  God 
Spoke  to  his  soul,  are  leveled  to  the  sod; 
And  in  their  place  tall  church  spires  point  above, 
While   priests    proclaim  the   law   of  Christ,  the 

King  of  Love. 


AND  OTHER  POEMS.  123 

III. 

The  avaricious  and  encroaching  rail 

Seized  the  wide  fields   which    knew  the  Indians' 

trail. 

Back  to  the  reservations  in  the  West 
The  native  owners  of  the  land  were  pressed, 
And  selfish  cities,  harbingers  of  want, 
Shut  from  their  vision  each  accustomed  haunt. 
Yet  hungry  Progress,  never  satisfied, 
Gazed  on  the  western  plains,  and  gazing,  longed 

and  sighed. 

IV. 

As  some  strange  bullock  in  a  pasture  field 
Compels  the  herds  to  fear  him,  and  to  yield 
The  juicy  grass  plots  and  the  cooling  shade 
Until,  despite  their  greater  strength,  afraid, 
They  huddle  in  some  corner  spot  and  cower 
Before  the  monarch's  all  controlling  power, 
So  has  the  white  man  driven  from  its  place 
By  his  aggressive  greed,  Columbia's  native  race. 

V. 

Yet  when  the  bull  pursues  the  herds  at  bay, 
Incensed  they  turn,  and  dare  dispute  his  sway. 
And  so  the  Indians  turned,  when  men  forgot 
Their  sacred  word,  and  trespassed  on  the  spot. 
The  lonely  little  spot  of  all  their  lands, 
The  reservation  of  the  peaceful  bands. 


124  CUSTER, 

But  lust  for  gold  all  conscience  kills  in  man, 
"  Gold  in  the  Black  Hills,  gold!"  the  cry  arose 
and  ran 

VI. 

From  lip  to  lip,  as  flames  from  tree  to  tree 
Leap  till  the  forest  is  one  fiery  sea, 
And  through  the  country  surged  that  hot  unrest 
Which  thirst  for  riches  wakens  in  the  br.east. 
In  mighty  throngs  the  fortune  hunters  came, 
Despoiled  the  red  man's  lands  and  slew  his  game, 
Broke  solemn  treaties  and  defied  the  law. 
And  all  these  ruthless  acts  the  Nation  knew  and 
saw. 

VII. 

Man  is  the  only  animal  that  kills 
Just  for  the  wanton. love  of  slaughter;  spills 
The  blood  of  lesser  things  to  see  it  flow; 
Lures  like  a  friend,  to  murder  like  a  foe 
The  trusting  bird  and  beast;  and,  coward  like, 
Deals  covert  blows  he  dare  not  boldly  strike. 
The  brutes  have  finer  souls,  and  only  slay 
When  torn  by  hunger's  pangs,  or  when  to  fear  a 
prey. 

VIII. 

The  pale-faced  hunter,  insolent  and  bold, 
Pursued  the  bison  while  he  sought  for  gold. 
And  on  the  hungry  red  man's  own  domains 


AND  OTHER  POEMS.  125 

He  left  the  rotting  and  unused  remains 
To  foul  with  sickening  stench  each  passing  wind 
And  rouse  the  demon  in  the  savage  mind, 
Save  in  the  heart  where  virtues  dominate 
Injustice   always    breeds  its  natural   offspring — 
hate. 

IX. 

The  chieftain  of  the  Sioux,  great  Sitting  Bull, 
Mused  o'er  their  wrongs,  and  felt  his  heart  swell 

full 

Of  bitter  vengeance.     Torn  with  bate's  unrest 
He  called  a  council  and  his  braves  addressed. 
"  From  fair  Wisconsin's  shimmering  lakes  of  blue 
Long  years  ago  the  white  man  drove  the  Sioux. 
Made  bold  by  conquest,  and  inflamed  by  greed, 
He  still  pursues  our  tribes,  and  still  our  ranks 

recede. 

X. 

"  Fair  are  the  White  Chiefs  promises  and  words, 
But  dark  his  deeds  who  robs  us  of  our  herds. 
He  talks  of  treaties,  asks  the  right  to  buy, 
Then  takes  by  force,  not  waiting  our  reply. 
He  grants  us  lands  for  pastures  and  abodes 
To  devastate  them  by  his  iron  roads. 
But  now  from  happy  Spirit  Lands,  a  friend 
Draws  near  the  hunted  Sioux,  to  strengthen  and 
defend. 


126  CUSTER, 

XL 

44  While  walking  in  the  fields  I  saw  a  star; 
Unconsciously  I  followed  it  afar — 
It  led  me  on  to  valleys  filled  with  light, 
Where  danced  our  noble  chieftains  slain  in  fight. 
Black  Kettle,  first  of  all  that  host  I  knew, 
He  whom  the  strong  armed  Custer  foully  slew. 
And  then  a  spirit  took  me  by  the  hand, 
The  Great  Messiah  King  who  comes  to  free  the 
land. 

XII 

44  Suns  were  his  eyes,  a  speaking  tear  his  voice, 
Whose   rainbow   sounds    made    listening   hearts 

rejoice 
And  thus  he  spake:    '  The  red  man's  hour  draws 

near 

When  all  his  lost  domains  shall  reappear. 
The  elk,  the  deer,  the  bounding  antelope, 
Shall  here  return  to  grace  each  grassy  slope.' 
He  waved  his  hand  above  the  fields,  and  lo! 
Down  through  the  valleys  came  a  herd  of  buffalo. 

XIII. 

"The  wondrous  vision  vanished,  but  I  knew 
That  Sitting  Bull  must  make  the  promise  true. 
Great  Spirits  plan  what  mortal  man  achieves, 
The  hand  works  magic  when  the  heart  believes. 
Arouse,  ye  braves!  let  not  the  foe  advance. 


AND  OTHER  POEMS,  12; 

Arm  for  the  battle  and  begin  the  dance — 
The  sacred  dance  in  honor  of  our  slain, 
Who  will  return  to  earth,  ere  many  moons  shall 
wane." 

XIV. 

Thus  Sitting  Bull,  the  chief  of  wily  knaves, 
Worked  on  the  superstitions  of  his  braves. 
Mixed  truth  with  lies;  and  stirred  to  mad  unrest 
The  warlike  instinct  in  each  savage  breast. 
A  curious  product  of  unhappy  times, 
The  natural  offspring  of  unnumbered  crimes, 
He  used  low  cunning  and  dramatic  arts 
To   startle  and   surprise  those   crude    untutored 
hearts. 

XV. 

Out  from  the  lodges  pour  a  motley  throng, 
Slow  measures  chanting  of  a  dirge-like  song. 
In  one  great  circle  dizzily  they  swing, 
.A  squaw  and  chief  alternate  in  the  ring. 
Coarse  raven  locks  stream  over  robes  of  white, 
Their  deep  set  orbs  emit  a  lurid  light, 
And  as  through  pine  trees  moan  the  winds  re 
frains, 

So  swells  and  dies  away,  the  ghostly  graveyard 
strains. 

XVI. 

Like  worded  wine  is  music  to  the  ear, 
And  long  indulged  makes  mad  the  hearts  that 
hear. 


128  CUSTER, 

The  dancers,  drunken  with  the  monotone 
Of  oft  repeated  notes,  now  shriek  and  groan 
And    pierce    their    ruddy  flesh   with   sharpened 

spears; 

Still  more  excited  when  the  blood  appears, 
With  warlike  yells,  high  in  the  air  they  bound, 
Then  in  a  deathlike  trance  fall  prostrate  on  the 

ground. 

XVII. 

They  wake  to  tell  weird  stories  of  the  dead, 
While  fresh  performers  to  the  ring  are  led. 
The  sacred  nature  of  the  dance  is  lost, 
War  is  their  cry,  red  war,  at  any  cost. 
Insane  for  blood  they  wait  for  no  command, 
But  plunge   marauding   through  the  frightened 

land. 

Their  demon  hearts  on  devils'  pleasures  bent, 
For  each  new  foe  surprised,  new  torturing  deaths 

invent. 

XVIII. 

Staked  to  the  earth  one  helpless  creature  lies, 
Flames  at  his  feet  and  splinters  in  his  eyes. 
Another  groans  with  coals  upon  his  breast, 
While  'round  the   pyre   the    Indians   dance  and 

jest. 

A  crying  child  is  brained  upon  a  tree, 
The  swooning  mother  saved  from  death,  to  be 


AND  OTHER  POEMS.  129 

The  slave  and  plaything  of  a  filthy  knave, 
Whose  sins  would  startle  hell,  whose  clay  defile  a 

grave. 

XIX. 
Their  cause  was   right,   their  methods  all   were 

wrong. 

Pity  and  censure  both  to  them  belong. 
Their  woes  were   many,  but  their    crimes    were 

more. 

The  soulless  Satan  holds  not  in  his  store 
Such  awful  tortures  as  the  Indians'  wrath 
Keeps  for  the  hapless  victim  in  his  path.      m 
And  if  the  last  lone  remnants  of  that  race 
Were  by  the  white  man  swept  from  off  the  earth's 

fair  face, 

XX. 

Were  every  red  man  slaughtered  in  a  day, 
Still  would  that  sacrifice  but  poorly  pay 

For  one  insulted  woman  captive's  woes. 

****** 

Again  great  Custer  in  his  strength  arose, 

More  daring,  more  intrepid  than  of  old. 

The  passing  years  had  touched  and  turned  to  gold 

The  ever  widening  aureole  of  fame 

That  shone  upon  his  brow,  and  glorified  his  name. 

XXI. 

Wise  men  make  laws,  then  turn  their  eyes  away, 
While  fools  and  knaves  ignore  them  day  by  day; 


1 30  OUSTER, 

And  unmolested,  fools  and  knaves  at  length 
Induce  long  wars  which  sap  a  country's  strength. 
The  sloth  of  leaders,  ruling  but  in  name, 
Has  dragged  full  many  a  nation  down  to  shame. 
A  word  unspoken  by  the  rightful  lips 
Has  dyed  the  land  with  blood,  and  blocked  the 
sea  with  ships. 

XXII. 

The  word  withheld,  when  Indians  asked  for  aid, 
Came  when  the  red  man  started  on  his  raid. 
Wha^  Justice  with  a  gesture  might  have  done 
Was  left  for  noisy  war  with  bellowing  gun. 
And  who  save  Custer  and  his  gallant  men 
Could  calm  the  tempest  into  peace  again? 
What  other  hero  in  the  land  could  hope 
With  Sitting  Bull,  the  fierce  and  lawless  one  to 
cope? 

XXIII. 

What  other  warrior  skilled  enough  to  dare 
Surprise  that  human  tiger  in  his  lair? 
Sure  of  his  strength,  unconscious  of  his  fame 
Out  from  the  quiet  of  the  camp  he  came; 
And  stately  as  Diana  at  his  side 
Elizabeth,  his  wife  and  alway  bride, 
And  Margaret,  his  sister,  rode  apace; 
Love's  clinging  arms  he  left  to  meet  death's  cold 
embrace,  * 


AND  OTHER  POEMS.  131 

XXIV. 

As  the  bright  column  wound  along  its  course, 
The  smiling  leader  turned  upon  his  horse 
To  gaze  with  pride  on  that  superb  command. 
Twelve  hundred  men,  the  picked  of  all  the  land, 
Innured  to  hardship  and  made  strong  by  strife 
Their  lithe  limbed  bodies  breathed  of  out-door 

life; 

While  on  their  faces,  resolute  and  brave, 
Hope  stamped   its  shining  seal,   although    their 

thoughts  were  grave. 

XXV. 

The  sad  eyed  women  halted  in  the  dawn, 
And  waved  farewell  to  dear  ones  riding  on. 
The  modest  mist  picked  up  her  robes  and  ran 
Before  the  Sun  god's  swift  pursuing  van. 
And  suddenly  there  burst  on  startled  eyes, 
The  sight  of  soldiers,  marching  in  the  skies; 
That  phantom  host,  a  phantom  Custer  led; 
Mirage  of  dire  portent,  forecasting  days  ahead. 

XXVI. 

The  soldiers'  children,  flaunting  mimic  flags, 
Played  by  the  roadside,  striding  sticks  for  nags. 
Their  mothers  wept,  indifferent  to  trie  crowd 
Who  saw  their  tears  and  heard  them  sob  aloud. 
Old  Indian  men  and  squaws  crooned  forth  a  rhyme 
Sung  by  their  tribes  from  immemorial  time; 


132  CUSTER, 

And  over  all  the  drums'  incessant  beat 
Mixed  with  the  scout's  weird  rune,  and  tramp  of 
myriad  feet. 

XXVII. 

So  flawless  was  the  union  of  each  part 

The  mighty  column  (moved  as  by  one  heart) 

Pulsed  through  the  air,  like  some  sad  song  well 

sung, 

Which  gives  delight,  although  the  soul  is  wrung. 
Farther  and  fainter  to  the  sight  and  sound 
The  beautiful  embodied  poem  wound; 
Till  like  a  ribbon,  stretched  across  the  land 
Seemed  the  long  narrow  line  of    that    receding 

band. 

XXVIII. 

The  lot  of  those  who  in  the  silence  wait 

Is  harder  than  the  fighting  soldiers'  fate. 

Back  to  the  lonely  post  two  women  passed, 

With  unaccustomed  sorrow  overcast. 

Two  sad  for  sighs,  too  desolate  for  tears, 

The  dark  forebodings  of  long  widowed  years 

In  preparation  for  the  awful  blow 

Hung  on  the  door  of  hope  the  sable  badge  of  woe. 

XXIX. 

Unhappy  Muse  !  for  thee  no  song  remains, 

Save  the  sad  miserere  of  the  plains. 

Yet  though  defeat,  not  triumph,  ends  the  tale, 


AND  OTHER  POEMS.  133 

Great  victors  sometimes  are  the  souls  that  fail. 
All  glory  lies  not  in  the  goals  we  reach, 
But  in  the  lessons  which  our  actions  teach. 
And  he  who,  conquered,  to  the  end  believes 
In   God  and  in  himself,  though  vanquished,  still 
achieves. 

XXX. 

Ah,  grand  as  rash  was  that  last  fatal  raid 
The  little  group  of  daring  heroes  made. 
Two  hundred  and  two  score  intrepid  men 
Rode  out  to  war;  not  one  came  back  again. 
Like  fiends  incarnate  from  the  depths  of  hell 
Five  thousand  foemen  rose  with  deafening  yell, 
And  swept  that  vale  as  with  a  simoon's  breath, 
But  like  the  gods  of  old,  each  martyr  met  his 
death. 

XXXI. 

Like  gods  they  battled  and  like  gods  they  died. 
Hour  following  hour  that  little  band  defied 
The  hordes  of  red  men  swarming  o'er  the  plain, 
Till  scarce  a  score  stood  upright  'mid  the  slain. 
Then  in  the  lull  of  battle,  creeping  near, 
A  scout  breathed  low  in  Custer's  listening  ear: 
"  Death  lies  before,  dear  life  remains  behind 
Mount  thy  sure-footed  steed,  and    hasten    with  the 
wind" 


134  CUSTER, 

XXXII. 

A  second's  silence.     Custer  dropped  his  head, 
His  lips  slow  moving  as  when  prayers  are  said — 
Two   words  he   breathed — "God  and  Elizabeth," 
Then  shook  his  long  locks  in  the  face  of  death, 
And  with  a  final  gesture  turned  away 
To  join  that  fated  few  who  stood  at  bay. 
Ah!  deeds  like  that  the  Christ  in  man  reveal 
Let  Fame  descend  her  throne  at  Custer's  shrine 
to  kneel. 

XXXIII. 

Too  late  to  rescue,  but  in  time  to  weep, 
His  tardy  comrades  came.     As  if  asleep 
He  lay,  so  fair,  that  even  hellish  hate 
Withheld  its  hand  and  dared  not  mutilate. 
By  fiends  who  knew  not  honor,  honored  still, 
He  smiled  and  slept  on  that  far  western  hill. 
Cast  down  thy  lyre,  oh  Muse!  thy  song  is  done! 
Let  tears  complete  the  tale  of  him  who  failed, 
yet  won. 


PLATT'S   BOOKSTORE, 
GRAND  ISLAND,  NEBRASKA. 


